The Wizard Who Meddled With Time
by Team Ozone
Summary: Terrible things happen to wizards who meddle with time. When that wizard is Harry Potter, the terrible things tend to happen to other people instead. Fourth Year. Time Travel.
1. Chapter 1

_A/N: I'm attempting to write the story rapidly and regularly before going back and making edits, so I'm aware that there are rusty spots, especially in the early chapters. Hopefully these aren't too bad, but I felt I should let you readers know that this is the first draft coming from a new habit of writing every day. I will be editing things later on, but for now I want to focus on getting the story going, and getting used to writing this much, this often. I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I've enjoyed writing it, and I'd be glad of any opinions or comments about the story if you were willing to review. Feedback is a great motivation.  
_

 **The Wizard Who Meddled With Time**

Chapter One

 _"Terrible things happen to wizards who meddle with time."_

Harry stood, twenty-seven years old, in a place he hadn't visited in nearly a decade: the smallest bedroom of number 4 Privet Drive. The younger version of Harry was still fast asleep, utterly oblivious to the events that were about to unfold. His desk was littered with wrapping paper and boxes. Harry checked them over and smiled, a twinge of nostalgia bubbling up inside him as he saw the contents. Birthday cakes, sent from Ron, Hermione, Sirius, and Hagrid. It was one thing to know that they'd be alive in this time, but to see tangible proof, to see for himself the reason why he'd come back - why, that was another matter entirely.

With only the barest twinge of regret, harshly suppressed by a reminder of why he was here, the elder Harry slipped his hand underneath his younger self's pillow and stole the holly and phoenix feather wand he'd used for so many years. Despite all that time spent together, it felt alien in his hands. It made sense. After all, he was no longer the Boy-Who-Lived. He was the world's first Chronomancer. Only a few years ahead of his schedule, but hey, timelines were the first thing to go out the window when he took up the job. After the paperwork.

If he was going to delve into the study of forbidden magic and shatter causality because of a guilty conscience, he damn well wasn't going to do it under Ministry scrutiny. For a Department with Mystery in its name, there sure were a lot of brown-nosing weasels sniffing around for scraps of information they could trade for coin or position.

Harry aimed the wand at his younger incarnation, and then hesitated. Fuck it. He'd left a lot of morals behind along the way - war does that to you - but he wasn't going to murder somebody so close to him without at least explaining why. Junior here would have wanted to know. Harry knew. He used to be the damn kid.

"Hey, Junior," he said.

Junior didn't wake up, so Harry gave him a sharp prod with his wand.

He immediately leapt to his feet, staring slackjawed at Harry, with only a quick glance at what was clearly his own wand in this intruder's hand.

"Dad?" he whispered, in a tone that seemed stuck between reverent and confused. And then he shook his head, and focused his gaze sharply on Harry. "No, you're not, are you?"

"Nope," replied Harry cheerfully. "Sorry about that, Junior. I'm not trying to trick you here."

"So who are you? And why are you naked?" demanded Junior, as vehemently as he dared without risking waking the Dursleys.

Harry smiled. Even as a scrawny brat, he sure had that Potter spunk in him.

"Remember the last time you mistook somebody for Dad? Hard to forget, really. A hundred dementors, our godfather dying by the lakeshore, and Dad standing across the water with a silver stag by his side."

Junior frowned.

"But that wasn't Dad. It was me, travelled back in time. And I definitely wasn't naked."

Harry waited for the gears to spin in his younger counterparts head. It only took a second.

"Wait. You're me?" he asked. Well, okay, it was more of an accusation, but Harry let it slide. It was an outrageous story, but he had three things on my side: the truth, which nobody ever paid any heed, personal experience on both our parts, which neither of them ever learned from, and a scar, which the whole damn Wizarding World soiled their robes to catch a glimpse of.

He was clearly on edge, but not disbelieving my outlandish tale, so Harry gave in, and did what he had to do for the greater good. Harry brushed aside his hair and revealed his scar. It had faded from vibrant red to the silvery sheen of a mundane injury, but was still clearly visible to anyone who looked hard enough.

"Hermione said we should always avoid our past selves, though," Junior said, warily. "Terrible things happen to wizards who meddle in time."

Upon hearing that, Harry let out a genuine, full-bellied laugh.

"Practically word for word. You've no idea how many times I've heard her say that. Let me introduce myself properly. Harry James Potter. First and only Chronomancer. No trinkets. No jewellery. None of those damn Sands of Time. Just me, myself, and magic. That's why I'm naked. Couldn't even take a tattoo with me, if I'd had one. It's a pleasure to meet me, little me," said Harry, bowing with a flourish that was mocking enough to make his younger self laugh, albeit quietly.

"But why are you here - now?" asked Junior.

Harry grimaced.

"I've fought a war against Voldemort for nearly twice as long as you've lived. I've killed him  
thirteen times. It doesn't work. My only chance of stopping him is by preventing him from coming back in the immortal body he's going to create. He's already started the ritual. In less than a year, he'll be back, stronger than ever, and every time I kill him, he comes back more powerful."

"There's something you're not telling me," said Junior, a harsh note entering his voice.

Harry sighed, and ran a hand through his hair. It had gotten less unruly as it had grown, but was still somewhat wild.

"Look, I'll be honest with you. You're me. We've been lied to, kept in the dark, kept in the dark in a fucking cupboard, and believe me, from here on out it only gets worse. Much worse. I've lived through it. But now I'm back here, and I have a choice to make."

"What choice?" asked Junior, his eyebrows narrowing.

"There can only be one Harry Potter. I stay here, and I'll fade away within the next few hours as if I'd never existed. This'll all be a weird dream to you. The second option is I take your place, and save the lives of everybody we will ever love with the knowledge and power I've gained from fighting Voldemort as a wizard, as a general, and as the only man living who can manipulate the magic of time like a feather in Charms class."

"Take my place?"

"I'm going to kill you. Kill myself. And win this war for good. You won't truly die. We're the same person. Our souls will merge and snap back together, with no difference except that I remember your side of this conversation," said Harry. His voice was sad, but resolute. This was not an option. This decision had already been made.

Junior stared at his older counterpart for a long time.

"Why not just kill me in my sleep? You took my wand easily enough. I can see that nothing will change your mind."

Harry sighed.

"I woke you so I could tell you why this is happening. Because I would have wanted to know. It still took years before they stopped treating me like a child, and by that point so many people had been lost that I could have saved."

"Hero complex, much?" quipped Junior.

"Pot, kettle," muttered Harry.

There was a long pause as Harry Potter stared at Harry Potter, and then, at long last, the younger one nodded.

"Do it."

"Why?" asked Harry.

"You would have done it anyway, right?"

Harry nodded.

"But you woke me up. You explained. Hell, you were a step away from asking permission. Dark wizards don't do that. Besides, this isn't really death. More like an upgrade."  
Harry grinned.

"Never doubted you. I'm proud of you, me."

The man and boy clasped arms together tightly, holly wand pointed squarely at the younger Potter's chest.

" _Avada Kedavra_ , you noble self-sacrificing son of a bitch," he said, in a tone quieter and more respectful than the words themselves. "And fuck you, space-time continuum!" he shouted at the top of his lungs.

Harry shuddered a little as he integrated the memories of his other self, but it was only a brief conversation, so the aftereffects passed after a few minutes. About the length of their conversation, if Harry was any judge, but unfortunately he'd left his watch on the other side of the millennium.

Almost on cue, heavy footsteps sounded outside the bedroom door. Harry had just enough time to grin before the door slammed open.

"Boy! What's all this racket? We didn't take you in so you could…" Vernon trailed off in a rare moment of speechlessness. "P-potter?" he spluttered out, clearly mistaking the older version of Harry for th in-law he'd only met a handful of times.

"Well, you're not wrong," said Harry.

"You're dead!" exclaimed Vernon. In a miraculous turn of events, he began to turn bloodlessly white instead of his usual tones of red and purple rage.

"Okay, now you're wrong," said Harry, openly laughing in his much larger and much more easily provoked uncle's face.

"What is this, some kind of - of freakishness? We won't tolerate any of this under our roof, and I remember that letter. They'll have you expelled for this, you hear me? Expelled and out of my house!"

Oh, I've been looking forward to this for so long, mused Harry to himself, before reaching back with one fist, and driving it with full force into Vernon's bloated face. Vernon collapsed into a heap instantly, regardless of their substantial weight difference.

"Harry Potter Special Stunning Spell: Muggle Edition. You're welcome." Harry bowed to his unconscious audience.

On his way out of the Dursley's aggravatingly dull house, Harry caught sight of himself in a mirror. Almost thirty, and looking several years past it due to the rigour of war. He fowned.

"Well, that won't do," he muttered to himself. "I need to get into Hogwarts as a student, not a teacher." He paused. "Can staff compete in the tournament? Ah, fuck it. What's the point of being a Chronomancer if I don't abuse the privilege at every turn?"

With a flicker of concentration, the wrinkles smoothed from Harry's face, and his hair shortened to just above his shoulders. He felt, rather than saw the loss of an inch or so of height, and a fair bit of muscle mass, but he was still in good shape - just more of an athlete than a heavy-duty soldier. His scars disappeared one by one with faint pops, all but his trademark lightning bolt and the double-sided mark from where the basilisk's fang had pierced him.

"Fourteen, twenty-seven, and now seventeen. Looks like it's going to be a quiet year at Hogwarts."

Harry burst out laughing, tossing his wand in the air, higher every time, and catching it again out of pure merriment. After the novelty wore off, he gave it a speculative glance.

"You've done alright by me in the past, old friend, but with that pesky horcrux in my scar gone, I'm afraid it's retirement time for you, just as soon as I make a proper wand for me, and not my scar."

The wand let off a burst of sparks and Harry patted it consolingly.

"Oh, don't worry, I won't abandon you. Tell you what, I'll bring you back to Fawkes. If he can't find the right wizard for you, I can't imagine who could." Harry paused for a moment, catching another glimpse of himself in the mirror. "Master forbidden magic, travel further in time than any others have dared, and all I've done so far is talk to myself and inanimate objects. And they said all wizards who meddle with time go mad! Let's prove them wrong."

The wand sparked again, as if in agreement.

"Yeah," said Harry. "Let's go mutilate some woodland creatures."

Hogwarts' anti-Apparition wards obviously didn't reach this far into the forest. Good thing, too, or Harry would have had only a Point-Me spell and crossed fingers keeping him in the right direction and away from the acromantula colony.

Huge trees rose in every direction, turned from brown and green into shades of grey by the dimming light. It was at the furthest edge of sundown, and Harry was deep amongst the trees. It was only the Lumos charm adorning the tip of his wand which kept the darkness - and spiders within it - at bay.

He'd never been afraid of spiders. In fact, they were his earliest friends, in a way, sharing his cupboard with him. But those ones had never tried to eat him. Harry still wasn't afraid of spiders, no matter how big, but he was still pretty pissed off with them, and that was no mood to be in for a mission of diplomacy. Even one which was pretty much guaranteed to end in violence.

Harry's mood began to foul after the second hour of stumbling. True darkness had fallen, and only his Lumos kept him from leaving an imprint of his face on the nearest tree.

It was around the fifteenth time that he tripped over that same tree's root that Harry realised what was going on. He'd been led in circles, over and over.

"Alright Firenze, you can come out. It's only me," he called out, loudly enough to be heard, but wary of attracting unsavoury attention.

Sure enough, Firenze stepped out from between the thickly-packed trees. He carried a longbow, but no arrows were knocked, and the weapon was held lowly, in a non-threatening posture. It didn't fool Harry. He knew that the centaur could put a shaft through his eye at four hundred paces even in this dense foliage, quicker than most wizards could utter a spell.

Despite his white-blond hair, toned musculature, and strikingly blue eyes, there was no mistaking this for a handsome wizard riding a horse. Firenze had a wildness about him that few wizards could recognize, let alone cultivate. Harry recognized it only because he could feel the same wildness within himself. Magic.

"Harry Potter. The first time we met, you were hunted by evil, and the stars spoke clearly of the war to come. Now you stand before me changed, no longer hunted but the hunter. Why have you come? There is no evil here."

"True," said Harry. But there is evil elsewhere."

"There is always evil. It is not here."

Harry dropped his smile and stared at Firenze, taking a moment to impart the severity of his next words.

"And yet the pattern of the stars has changed. The alignment of the planets are wrong. Without moving, without the passing of days or seasons, the skies are suddenly wrong. Everything your people know of the heavens is lost."

Firenze stood in silence, the very image of a statue.

"I did this."

Firenze was the embodiment of stoicism, but all around him, Harry saw the forms of centaurs emerge from the shadows, arrows nocked and ready to fire.

"You aided me once, Firenze. You can do so again. And this time I can offer proper payment for your aid."

A single arrow flew at Harry, but he had prepared for it; had known it was coming. With the smallest possible movement, he tilted his head to the left, and the arrow missed him entirely.

"Knowledge of the future is mine. I will return the pattern of the heavens to you, show you the ripples of fate distorted by my power, and return to you what is rightfully yours."

A darker centaur burst into the clearing, charging up to Harry until they were almost touching, although Harry had to crane his neck upwards to meet his eyes.

"Bane," he acknowledged. The stench of mulch and sweat was like a tangible blow, standing this close to the centaur. No blood dripped from his weapons, but Harry could smell it in the air, coppery and sweet. He chose not to speculate whether Bane was injured or had killed this night.

"Humans," hissed Bane. "All the same. Meddling with things beyond your understanding. We should kill you and be done with it."

"On the contrary," said Harry. "I propose a bargain by the Old Laws. Irrevocable. Unbreakable. Made in good faith."

Bane reared up onto his hind legs and roared into the night air.

"And what do you know of the old ways, man-child? Even the eldest of you have forgotten the pacts which bound all creatures of magic together, not just wizards and your thralls." His voice was thick with rage, and after speaking, he slammed his forelegs onto the ground with enough force to make the earth tremble beneath Harry's feet.

Harry, resolute, did not move or flinch against the display, inches from his face.

"My pact is not with you, Bane. The choice to accept or refuse does not lie with you," said Harry.

The darker centaur made a low noise in his throat, like a rumbling growl. Harry narrowed his eyes, but then turned his attention back to where it mattered.

Firenze!" Harry shouted, suddenly raising his voice. "Sight for sight, as is tradition. I will grant you understanding of the changing in the heavens in exchange for the standard offering."

The centaurs in the background shifted uncertainly, fingering their bows. For half a moment, Harry feared they wouldn't buy it, that he'd be riddled with arrows, but then Firenze stepped forwards.

"You have a good heart, Harry Potter, although it has changed greatly since last we met. I accept your bargain. You will grant me this lost wisdom in exchange for one of my eyes. I will teach this wisdom to my brethren, and we will find our path once more."

His nerves fading, Harry mustered the will to grin at Firenze.

"You forget, Firenze. You saved my life once. I owe you a debt, and that is no small thing. I won't just return this knowledge to you, but to all of your people. All centaurs will benefit from your courage and sacrifice."

Firenze lowered his head mutely in a gesture of respect, but Harry caught the look of shock on his face.

"It is rare that a wizard is generous in dealing with our kind, Harry Potter," said Firenze.

"For now. Look to the sky, and tell me what you see."

The night sky was mottled with pinpricks of light, the usual stars which pierced the dense tree cover. The moon hung overhead, and after years of astronomy lessons, Harry could even recognize which few of the stars were planets.

Harry conjured a stoppered glass jar with a flick of his old self's holly wand, and then, in the same motion, summoned Firenze's left eye with a modified one-way switching spell. The jar filled with gore instantaneously. The eyeball was the largest part, but trailing behind it was a length of muscle, sinew, and, most importantly, the part Harry had come here to get. The optic nerve of a centaur.

Firenze howled in agony for a moment, but only a moment. The pain was nothing compared to the wonders of the mysteries of the sky, once more revealing the pathways of the future to the centaur people.

"All your kin will see the sky with the clarity they once did, my friend, but for your sacrifice, your vision will be keener than ever," said Harry.

Noticing the expressions of wonder on the centaurs gazing skywards, Harry let out a premature sigh of relief, only to notice that not all of them had looked up yet, and were advancing towards him with menacing expressions.

"Find me when the school term starts, Firenze," he said quickly. "I think I might know where to find you a replacement for that eye. Hold tight for a few months and I'll bring it by."

Firenze met Harry's gaze, blood pouring from the empty socket where his eye had once been. There was pain in his expression, but no resentment. The bargain was struck.

"Farewell, Harry Potter," said the centaur. "I once feared for you. Fate can be a hard path to travel for one so young. Now I gaze at the sky and fear for the world which holds you within it."

The light hiss of air as an arrow launched into the air was warning enough for me. Harry attempted to disapparate, but was a moment too slow, and an arrow lodged in his upper arm.

"Ow," he said, as sarcastically as he could, and made a rude gesture at the centaur who'd shot him. Harry could only hope that the centaur saw it before he disappeared from view.

After a quick trip to Diagon Alley to steal some supplies, Harry Apparated back to the Forbidden Forest, albeit a different location, far removed from the centaur's territory. A large, flat stone stood in the centre of a clearing. Harry placed his new prize atop it reverently. This was almost a sacred rite. The ritual of wand crafting.

Ollivander's wands were the finest in Britain. Most would argue the finest in the world. And Harry would be right beside them. After all, it was Ollivander who had made his original wand, and then, much later, in a future which would no longer happen, teach him the art of wand-crafting himself.

Although Harry was a capable wandmaker himself, he didn't dare to claim that he could surpass Ollivander in terms of skill or experience. A lifetime of honing his craft had given Ollivander unparalleled abilities when it came to building the tools so essential to the lives of magical folk.

But wandlore is a complicated and intimate matter, a bond between wizard and wand very similar to the bond with a familiar, or a family. And this was what would make all the difference. A wand crafted by the wizard who would use it would always have a stronger connection, that bond running deeper than one any store-bought product could ever create.

It was no disrespect to Ollivander's work, Harry thought, as he opened the glass jar holding Firenze's eye - and attachments. Ollivander was the better wandmaker for any ordinary wizard on the street, but Harry could craft a wand tuned to his magic, by his magic, and that would make something so suited to his power that it would be a part of him.

No magic could interfere with the process, so Harry had to do this by hand. He didn't mind. He preferred it this way. It was important to devote time to things which mattered; to give personal attention to the creation of an item so personal.

He pulled a silver knife from his belt, stolen from an unwitting apothecary in Diagon Alley only hours ago, and scoured the trees around the clearing, looking for a likely candidate. It shouldn't be too hard. Most of the trees in this area were of the right species. Birch.

The birch tree was a symbol of revival, adaptability, and resilience. It was the perfect wood for the wand of a wizard who dabbled in the magics of time.

Harry walked over to the nearest birch tree and place his palm on its trunk, closing his eyes in concentration and letting his senses flow into it. No good. He could feel the residue of another creature's magic. Nothing lived within it, but something powerful had touched it recently a unicorn, or thestral, perhaps. The lingering traces of magic would contaminate the rite of wand-crafting. Harry sighed, and moved onto the next one. The forest was full of magical creatures. He worried that it might take a long time before he found an untouched specimen.

Despite his worries, Harry eventually found a likely looking tree. Old and strong, he couldn't begin to guess how old it was, but more importantly, it was healthy, clean, and free from the magical contamination of bowtruckles or other magical creatures. After finding more than a dozen perfectly good trees ruined by the bowtruckles nesting within, and getting his finger bitten by one, he resolved to snap innocuous twigs in half whenever he encountered them in future, on the off chance that they were one of the dratted beasts.

Harry snapped off a small branch near head height, and sat at the base of the tree, trimming it of all leaves and bark until he had only a slender stick. He brought it over to the stone where he'd left the jar, and placed it carefully down.

With the silver knife, he made a long, thing incision in the stick, running from its tip to its base. This was the easy part.

Trying not to think about what he was touching, Harry pulled Firenze's eye out of the jar, and, in one quick motion, neatly severed it from the length of gore that had dangled behind it. Harry caught the blood-soaked, stringy viscera, and dropped the eyeball back into the jar. For all that he'd made the trade in exchange for the eye, the eye wasn't what he'd wanted.

He trimmed the spare sinew and muscle with the knife in the same methodical fashion he had stripped the bark from the wood, making sure to keep his mind absolutely blank as he did so. It was vital that he stay focused on the task at hand, no matter how unpleasant it was. Stray thoughts of revulsion could contaminate the essential ingredient as easily as dropping it on the ground would do.

At last, he had it. A long, red string, devoid of the extra pieces of Firenze's biology which had come attached. This was going to be his new wand core: the optic nerve of a centaur.

Harry placed the core into the groove he'd carved, and then pricked his finger with the knife. A single drop of blood fell onto his half-made wand, and it was done.

A soundless wave of concussive force exploded from the new wand, knocking Harry backwards. He staggered, almost falling, but then caught himself with one hand on the lip of the stone slab.

A feeling of elation bubbled up inside him. He reached out to touch his new wand, and, as soon as his fingers brushed its surface, gasped as his magic surged into the slender piece of wood. The wand had reshaped itself from its raw ingredients into a beautiful piece of craftsmanship. Around a foot in length, the wand was a pale, silvery-white colour, textured with a pattern of spheres too shallow to see from a distance, but giving the wand a pleasant feel in his hand.

Harry grinned.

"Well then," he said, as much to the wand as to himself. "Give it a wave."

He flicked his wand in the air, and a burst of silver mist shot out, spreading around him, and filling the clearing like a fog. It spiralled upwards, and the exploded outwards, clearing the night sky of clouds.

Harry stood in silence, staring upwards. The stars were brighter than he could ever remember, and the air was utterly still. The breeze before had been faint, but somehow this sudden stillness was as vivid as a hurricane. It was peaceful, and yet somehow forceful.

And then Harry noticed a bat, a mere shadow against the light of the moon. It was also still, frozen in place mid-air. As he watched, there was a rushing in his ears as the world caught up, as time unfroze, and the bat suddenly flittered away seeming not to have noticed that anything had happened.

"Oh, yes," murmured Harry. "You are definitely the wand for me."

Harry Apparated back to Privet Drive, and contemplated once again what to do about Albus Dumbledore. In the end he reached the same conclusion which he had every other time. The man had to be involved, or everything would fall apart. Who knows what conclusions he'd draw watching Harry's plans unfold? At best, he'd try to take control and ruin everything. At worst, he'd assume Harry was possessed by Voldemort and do anything from Obliviation to a mercy killing.

Damn it all.

He had wanted to do this alone, but there was no alternative. But then a thought crept into Harry's mind, and he glanced at his old wand, lying discarded on his bedside table. He grinned.

May as well have a bit of fun while he was at it. If you're damned already, you may as well dance with the devil while you're at it.

It took a while to find where his younger self had stored his parchment, ink, and quills. Harry smirked at that. Obviously he hadn't been spending too much time on Transfiguration essays or goblin rebellions. Good on you, little me, Harry thought to himself, resolving to live up to his teenage self and not do any homework unless it was absolutely necessary. Some sacrifices must be made for the greater good, after all, and there were few things greater than time - time which could be spent on things far better than scribbling away about what happened when you added a horned toad to a Shrinking Solution.

Harry eventually found the equipment he needed, and sat down at the rickety desk which the Dursleys had provided him with to write, all those years ago.

 _Dear Albus_ , he began, only to grow annoyed at the movement of the table underneath him. He gave the wobbly leg a tap with his new wand, and the blasted thing straightened itself out.

 _Dear Albus,_

I apologise for the inconvenience of this late hour, but some things are best dealt with immediately. I find myself troubled with an abundance of birthday cake and no friends with whom to eat it. If you would be so kind as to visit me in the littlest bedroom of number four Privet Drive, I would be glad to share a midnight snack and discuss the obvious matter at hand. As a token of my sincerity, please find enclosed the wand of Harry James Potter. He no longer requires it, for reasons best witnessed firsthand. Perhaps Fawkes would enjoy the return of his feather, and will one day find another wizard suitable to wield it.

 _Yours,_  
 _A Friend_

Harry rolled the parchment tightly around his holly wand, and tied the whole thing together with a short length of string before walking over to the corner of the room where Hedwig perched in her cage. As a nocturnal bird, she was wide awake, watching him write with eager eyes. Harry supposed she'd realised that it was a letter he was writing, and wa eagerly anticipating a chance to stretch her wings.

"Sorry girl," said Harry, petting Hedwig through the bars of her cage. "This message needs to arrive immediately, and even you can't fly fast enough to reach Hogwarts within an hour."

Hedwig hooted indignantly, ruffling her snowy white feathers, and glaring at Harry in suspicion. Harry imagined that she was concerned he'd be sending the message by another means. She had always been a jealous owl when it came to his post. Harry bet she'd be more annoyed by that than losing the chance to fly. He chuckled quietly. He'd missed Hedwig as much as any of his human friend - not that he'd made a habit of noticing what race a creature was before befriending it in the past.

"So I'm afraid I'm going to have to send you back in time. Let's say twenty-four hours. A nice round number for time magic, and I know you can reach Hogwarts in that time. Make sure you deliver the message exactly at the moment I cast the spell. Think you can do that?"

Hedwig hooted in affirmation, and then pecked at his finger as if to scold Harry for doubting her. He chuckled again, and opened the door to her cage. She stuck out her leg expectantly, and Harry tied the letter and wand to her, being careful that the wand wouldn't impede her movements.

"Alright then, girl. If you get there a bit early, go visit some friends in the Owlery. Have a party with the Hogwarts owls, and catch up on all the gossip."

Harry picked Hedwig up in one hand, and opened the window with the other. She squirmed in the uncomfortable position, and Harry apologised quickly, placing her on the outer sill.

"Ready?" he asked. Before she could hoot a reply, Harry pulled out his new wand and gave it an experimental twirl. "First spell from my new wand, and it's going on you. Hope you appreciate it."

He tapped her gently on the beak, and she shuddered in discomfort. There was a quiet rush of displaced air, and then nothing. The distant sound of a muggle neighbourhood at night was all that she left behind; no sparks or thunderclaps, no vibrant signs of magic. Just the empty spot where the world's first time-travelling owl had been.

Harry lay back on his tiny bed, speculating about how Dumbledore would react.

His old headmaster wasn't the type to come in wands blazing, Stun-first and Veritaserum later, unlike many of the wizards he'd worked with in the past. Even when confronting Voldemort, Dumbledore had always attempted to negotiate peacefully, had always opened with diplomacy when others would never dare to.

It was admirable, Harry thought. Damn stupid, but admirable nonetheless.

So Dumbledore wouldn't blast him apart or bludgeon the truth out of him. The most likely scenario would be that he'd simply turn up and talk - with his wand within reach, to be sure, but talk nonetheless.

The blood wards were still intact. Harry could sense them overhead, a steady cascade of magic protecting him from Dark wizards, and Voldemort in particular. He snorted at the irony that the killing curse to the chest hadn't triggered them, but supposed that it made sense. He hadn't killed Harry, just removed his spare body. They were one and the same.

"Kill the spare," echoed in his mind, and Harry shivered. Those words had never stopped haunting him. But this was different. Harry lived on, body and soul, in, well, Harry. And Cedric was just the first of many lives he hoped to save.

Dumbledore would know that Harry hadn't been attacked - and yet an unknown third party had invaded Privet Drive, taken Harry's wand, and sent that letter. The only time a wizard no longer requires a wand is when he is dead, after all. Harry wondered again and again what conclusions Dumbledore would be drawing up, sure that the headmaster's imagination was wilder and broader than his own.

Harry laughed aloud.

It didn't matter. No matter what Dumbledore thought, he would come as soon as he read the letter. To investigate, not avenge, but perhaps prepared to if his thoughts took a darker turn. Harry was thankful that the wards still held, or Dumbledore's approach would definitely be predisposed towards discovering what threat may lie in wait.

Harry was picturing a particularly vivid scenario of Dumbledore pacing his bedroom in paisley pyjamas, distraught, enraged, and terrified for Harry's well-being. He felt a little guilty at that. His letter was bound to make the old man concerned, but that was paramount. You didn't send the Chief Mugwump a midnight summons for anything less than life or death.

Before Harry had a chance to brush off his guilt, there was a resounding crack, and Dumbledore appeared before him, eyes flashing furiously behind his crescent-shaped glasses.

Oops.

However this encounter could have begun, a guilty expression might not make the best impression.  
Harry didn't think hello would quite cut it. In a situation like this, something with a bit more gravitas is essential to set things off on the right note. And make up for that guilty expression. Even good evening wasn't enough. Hell, no greeting, however fancy, would cut it. Luckily Harry had an ace up his sleeve, a guaranteed conversation killer in any room. The one sentence with which you could shock anyone from Lucius Malfoy to Molly Weasley.

"Voldemort is back," he said.

Dumbledore narrowed his eyes.

Giving his old headmaster a quick look up and down, Harry was amused to see that although Albus was fully dressed - presumably transfigured nightwear - his feet were still in fluffy orange slippers patterned with stars.

"I feared as much," he said slowly, "but at this moment in time I'm more concerned with where Harry Potter might be. Remarkable as your resemblance might be, you're a few years too old to be him, and I doubt any attempted imposter would send such a letter."

"Funny you should mention time," muttered Harry.

Dumbledore gave him a sharp look, but remained still. It looked like Harry's judgement was correct. His former teacher would never be the first to reach for a wand.

"My name is Harry James Potter. It's been a while, old friend. I'm glad to see you again," said Harry sincerely. He'd cared deeply for Dumbledore before his death, and hoped to add his name to the list of lives to be spared. Although he doubted that Dumbledore would believe him without some heavy convincing, he figured it was best to open with the truth. Any attempts at lying could backfire, if they even worked to begin with, and anything that could explain this situation would be every bit as outlandish as the truth.

Harry eyed Dumbledore nervously, waiting for him to react, to say something, to do anything. He clenched his hands in frustration, but remained where he was, lying down on the bed, arms folded behind his head. Surely that ranked right up there as unthreatening poses went. Harry began to fear the worst when the silence dragged on, but suddenly Dumbledore burst into a deep belly-laugh that went on for a full minute.

"One jaunt with a time turner and you're hooked?" asked Dumbledore, mirth in his voice. "By the look of you I'd guess you're eighteen?"

"Seventeen, actually," replied Harry, stunned that Dumbledore had cottoned on so quickly. "But how did you know this was time travel?"

"All magic leaves its traces, my boy. You need only know how to look for them."  
"Yeah, I know that. But time magic? What on earth have you been doing that you can recognise it so easily?"

It made sense that if anyone would recognise the unique signature of temporal energies it would be Dumbledore, but still. It was a little jarring to be caught out so early in the game.

"I could ask you the same. Travelled back in time three years, then? That must be a record, surely. Although I'd advise you not to boast where it might reach the ears of the Ministry. They tend to be rather unhappy about flagrant violations of the law, particularly when it concerns such volatile a subject as time."

"And yet you're rather ambivalent about the whole matter," said Harry, more than a little confused. Dumbledore simply smiled in response. "But you're a little off. Thirteen years, not three."

"Even more impressive. But that begs the question of why you're seventeen. Fourteen or twenty-seven I could understand. Mental transference into your past self, or physical manifestation in the current timeline," said Dumbledore, speaking as much to himself as to Harry, puzzling out the riddle that had appeared before him.

Harry began to feel a well of frustration overflowing, and jumped up off the bed, not really bothered at getting caught, but annoyed that it had happened so easily.

"You know, this is incredibly unfair," he complained bitterly. "All my life you've pulled this wise, all-knowing mysterious act, and sure, that made sense, you're an old and powerful wizard. But I travelled the fuck back in time, and in an instant you've figured out half of it before I got my turn to speak in those infuriating riddles."

Dumbledore continued smiling, the expression growing broader.

"Do forgive an old man his hobbies - and his curiosity. But why seventeen?"

"Because only overage wizards can enter the Triwizard Tournament, and I stand my best chance at stopping Voldemort from gaining a true body as the Champion for Hogwarts."

"I'm afraid this is rather a lot to take in, Harry," said Dumbledore.

"Then let's start at the beginning. Harry Potter, Chronomancer. Pleased to meet you." Harry held out a hand. Dumbledore hesitated for a moment, and then clasped my hand in his own, and shook it firmly.

"Albus Dumbledore. Headmaster. A pleasure."

"You're missing a few names and titles there, old friend," Harry said.

"I could say the same to you. But I can hardly call a twenty seven year old war veteran the Boy-Who-Lived, now, can I?"

"Merlin, I hope not," Harry replied. He was taking a risk by telling Dumbledore anything, and everything could backfire if Dumbledore continued to treat him as the Boy-Who-Lived, whether as a boy, or as the subject of that aggravating prophecy.

"As enlightening as this has been," continued Dumbledore, "I doubt you'd call me here in the middle of the night simply to let me know that you're - ah - back in town, as it were. I've been reading the signs, and I fear I must agree with you. Voldemort is coming back."

Harry sighed, and ran a hand through his hair. He'd heard those words all too many times. Voldemort was always coming back. Either that or spreading rampant death and destruction, but knock him down, grab a moment's peace, and then suddenly it's everybody screaming those same words again.

"No," said Harry bluntly. "He is back. A deformed homunculus for now, but with a body of his own. He plans to use the Triwizard Tournament as a trap to gain a key component in his resurrection. Me."

Understanding bloomed in Dumbledore's eyes. It was more than a metaphor, but rather a fascinating thing to watch. As both men had some skill in legilimency, they could watch the emotions of the other through mere eye contact.

"So that's why you've changed your age? A marvellous piece of magic, one which I never thought I'd see. But if the Tournament is the trap, surely you would not wish to enter?" The last question seemed rhetorical, as Harry was sure Dumbledore had guessed the answer already, but wanted to hear Harry's own reasoning on the matter.

"What better way to catch the man who set a trap but to spring it and see who comes running? Besides, he had his Death Eaters manipulate events so that I was forced to compete, the first time around. If I enter as a legitimate Champion instead of the accidental fourth, I can prevent another student from getting caught in his schemes. I have no wish to watch Cedric die again."

"Diggory? A fine student." Dumbledore sighed. "He would be a great loss. And you're clearly more aware of the situation than I am. As your teacher, I feel I should stop this madness, and yet…" he trailed off uncertainly.

"War was my teacher, Albus." Harry put a comforting hand on his shoulder, and was pleasantly surprised when he didn't pull away. "Everything is different now."

"From what I know of time magic, the less I know, the better," he said, at long last.

"What wizards have found with their crude fumblings of Time-Turners and the Sands of Time are correct in that matter, at least. But I'm not playing with trinkets I don't understand here, Albus. I'm a master Chronomancer, the first of my kind. I know you feel obliged to take control of this situation, but this is my duty, not yours. You have other responsibilities. Let me take care of mine. And don't be afraid to ask for help."

The aged wizard in front of me shook his head sadly, and then turned that piercing gaze on Harry once again.

"I should be the one offering to help you, not the other way around."

"Oh, I'll have a few favours to ask from time to time," said Harry, grinning. "But for now, all I wanted to do was lay my cards on the table and share a slice of cake with a friend."

"My, I'd quite forgotten. Happy birthday, my boy."

Harry pulled out his new wand, which the headmaster eyed with interest, and then he conjured a pair of plates and forks. The headmaster raised an eyebrow at the demonstration of magical prowess, no doubt wondering how deep Harry's talents ran.

"So thats why you returned your wand to Fawkes," he mused. "I've never seen a wand quite like it. Definitely not made in Ollivander's style. Was it made by a future wandmaker for you? Ah, forgive me. I know better than to pry into future events."

"You get a free pass on this one. I made it myself. Tonight, as a matter of fact."

"Your questions only raise more answers. I get the feeling that curiosity will drive me mad before too long! What is it made of? Beech?"

"Birch. Bet you a galleon you can't guess the core."

"I'll pass on the bet, but I get the feeling that it's not another phoenix feather. Fawkes' plumage looks rather delightful this evening, without any hint of a stolen tailfeather."

"Optic nerve of a centaur, willing given."

Harry was amused to see that Dumbledore's jaw actually dropped open in shock. He recovered quickly, but the moment was forever burned into Harry's memory, and Harry was overjoyed to have finally startled the implacable headmaster.

"I see that I made the correct choice regarding the bet, then. I dare not ask how you convinced a centaur to give you his eye, but it is a beautiful wand regardless. You are to be commended on the craftsmanship."

"Thank you," said Harry, nodding his head in a show of false modesty. "Cake?" he offered, cutting two slices and levitating them onto the plates with a gesture.

"Thank you," echoed Dumbledore. "Perhaps it's the constant presence of so many children, but I do have a terrible weakness for sweets."

They sat down together, side by side on Harry's rickety cot of a bed, the time-traveller and the headmaster, quietly chewing on a forkful of cake.

After he had finally managed to swallow it, Dumbledore turned his head to face Harry once more.

"Hagrid?" he asked.

"Hagrid," Harry answered.


	2. Chapter 2

Harry had no intention of squandering his time by skulking at the Dursleys' until school began, so as soon as morning dawned, he set out for the wider world.

As he passed the same mirror in the hallway, he paused, considering his options. There were a lot of things he had to do before returning to Hogwarts, but he didn't want the name Harry Potter attached to some of the more insidious acts he was planning. He stared at his reflection and focused.

This was one of the subtler aspects of Chronomancy; simple enough that it didn't need a wand or preparation. Harry had always thought of it as his own equivalent to the animagus transformation. He stood there, and let time rush by at an accelerated rate, aging his body. Wrinkles appeared, and his hair lengthened, turning grey. He grew taller briefly as he passed through his prime, and then lost some height as age set in. Harry held the transformation for a moment longer, and then released the spell, leaving his body displaced sideways in time and almost unrecognizable through the changes that an extra sixty years had made.

Harry was amused to notice that his hair had grown much longer, but there was a shiny bald patch atop his scalp. His hunched posture and bony physique was actually closer to his fourteen year old body than his adult one had been, but he looked completely different.

Now his reflection showed an old man, battered by time into an unrecognisable stranger. It was the perfect disguise, thought Harry - and technically he still looked exactly like Harry Potter, which he had always found a touch ironic. He had often used this disguise in the past, hiding in plain view.

Pleased with his appearance as a shabby old man, Harry Apparated away, into Diagon Alley. It was the work of moments to find a suitably worn robe to match his disguise in a second-hand clothes store, so a handful of sickles later, Harry was dressed the part.

Looking poor had its advantages. Harry noticed the way that the other shoppers made way for him to pass. It wasn't much; most people would hardly notice it, but after years of war Harry had learned to pay attention to the actions of the crowds around him. It was always a good indicator of the mood of the day, and he was all too used to being ambushed in the street to let his guard down.

He didn't let the emotion reach his face, but Harry was pleased by the reaction of the people around him. Parents pulled their children a little closer, and the better-dressed members of the crowd either sneered or made a point of not looking at him. Yes, this would do. He looked suitably shabby to be down on his luck, and dodgy-looking old men were the archetypical petty crook of the Wizarding World.

Without having exchanged a word with a single other person, Harry Disapparated back out of the Alley. This time, however, he didn't go back to Privet Drive, but instead to the office of the Daily Prophet. Which was located in Diagon Alley, sure, but all the way on the other side, and Harry didn't fancy testing his knees for arthritis. Or at least that's the lie he told himself - in truth, he just couldn't be bothered to walk half a mile.

"I'm going to get so fat when I'm old," Harry muttered to himself, before dusting off his robes, straightening his shoulders, and pushing open the front doors to the office.

A bored looking witch in sky-blue robes sat at the front desk, reading a newspaper. Harry walked up to her, and opened his mouth to speak, but then noticed what she was reading, and chuckled. The receptionist of the Daily Prophet was reading a copy of the Quibbler.

She looked up at the sound.

"Can I help you?" she asked, turning her attention back to the Quibbler. Harry tried to catch a glimpse of the front page, but the angle was wrong, and he couldn't see much more than the name Stubby Boardman. He resolved to purchase a subscription for himself so he could keep up to date on Sirius' Quibbler-edition escapades, but that would have to wait. Today he was here to get an even more outrageous fiction published.

"Here to see Rita Skeeter," he grumbled. He didn't have to fake the unhappiness in his voice. That blasted witch had caused no end of trouble for him, and he was none-too-pleased about dealing with her.

"Name?" asked the receptionist, putting the Quibbler down and pulling out a long roll of parchment. Harry winced. From what he could see, it was a list of appointments for the day. He craned his neck, trying to pick out an appropriate identity to steal. The receptionist put the parchment face down and gave him a flat glare.

"Name?" she asked again, in an irritated tone of voice.

"Stubby Boardman," Harry tried.

The corners of her lips quirked upwards at that, but then she shook her head.

"Even celebrity musicians -" she paused, flicking her eyes back at the Quibbler " - or hardened criminals have to make an appointment first. Unless you have a name that's actually on the list?" she asked, clearly doubtful, but at least the earlier irritation was no longer in her voice.

"Mr Source," suggested Harry.

"There's no Mr Source on today's list."

"Anonymous Source? Rita's an old friend. Surely you've seen her quote me in her articles! We're practically colleagues," Harry claimed.

"Sorry," said the witch, despite her smile. "I can't let you in without an appointment. If you owl Ms Skeeter to arrange a time, I'm sure she'll be happy to take your story, but she's a very busy woman."

Harry wasn't too bothered by the refusal. He hadn't expected it to be easy, but he had an ace up his sleeve. The same one, in fact, that Rita Skeeter used herself. Blatant lies. He leaned forward on the desk, bringing his face closer to the receptionist. He noticed her pull back slightly, and remembered the face he was wearing. Yeah, not many young witches liked having badly dressed old men get in their face.

"Harry Potter's in St Mungo's," he whispered. The witch raised her eyebrows, and Harry seized the opportunity. "I was there when they brought him in. All very hush-hush. Took him to the isolation ward so nobody would know, but I overheard them talking. Heard how it happened. You wouldn't believe!"

Fame had always been a thorn in Harry's side, but this time around he was going to make it his bitch. He'd long since grown out of his childhood shyness, and didn't hesitate to drop his name whenever he needed a little extra impact behind his words. The fact that he was pretending to be someone else also did wonders at alleviating his discomfort at using his reputation so blatantly.

"Alright," the witch said at last. "Second floor, corner office. It's the first door on your left once you pass the framed photograph of her shaking the Minister's hand," she said, rolling her eyes at the mention of the photo. "Don't expect a finder's fee if you're taking out of your arse."

Harry smiled genially at the receptionist, and headed off in the directions given. The first step of today's plan was a roaring success. Now it was time for phase two - launch a smear campaign against the Boy-Who-Lived. He snickered at the thought that he'd be setting in motion what Skeeter had ended up doing of her own accord. The difference was that this time, he'd be pulling the strings.

Skeeter's office was easy enough to find. The receptionist's distaste for the photo had been well earned. Everything about it was revolting, from the putrid lime robes worn by Skeeter to Fudge's jowls wobbling as he shook Skeeter's hand, over and over again. Harry wouldn't be surprised if Skeeter had charmed the photo to loop those few seconds over and over, rather than acting like most moving magical photographs. Fudge's face looked like a mixture of pork and jelly, wobbling atrociously. Trust Rita Skeeter to find a way to humiliate every public figure she came across, even when being presented with an award. Harry didn't even know what awards were given to journalists, but she was clearly being given some kind of accolade in the scene pictured. An Order of Merlin, No Class? That sounded about right.

Not bothering to knock, Harry walked straight into Skeeter's office. It was empty.

"Bollocks," he swore. He should have realised that she spent more time harassing the public with her quick-quotes quill and bad perfume than in her office. The receptionist had seemed to think that Skeeter was in her office, though, or surely she'd have told him to come back another time.

Harry flopped in a chair in the corner of the room, and decided to wait for the infuriating woman to turn up. Hopefully she was just getting a cup of coffee in the staff room, or something of that ilk. He tapped his feet idly, and hoped that she wouldn't take too long.

After half an hour, Harry decided he'd had enough. He cast a proximity ward to alert him when somebody entered the room, disillusioned himself, and began to do what he did best - meddle with time.

It was impossible to travel into future. Harry had done a lot of impossible things, but that barrier was one he'd never been able to crack, no matter how hard he tried. But along the way, he'd picked up a few tricks from his experiments in accelerating time, and after a lot of practice, even learned how to perform them on purpose.

Harry spun his wand in circles, slowly at first, but then faster and faster, accelerating the passage of time around him. This was one of the first pieces of time magic he'd developed entirely on his own, as opposed to improving existing spells. He was rather proud of it, but it had hospitalised him more than once through carelessness. While it accelerated time around him, making hours pass in minutes, or even seconds, should he wish, it only affected his mind. His body was still experiencing time at a normal rate. The first time he'd tried doing this, he'd skipped several days in the future, and immediately collapsed from dehydration, hunger, and fatigue.

For Harry, only a few seconds passed before his ward triggered. He immediately inverted the flow of the spell, slowing time. This was another of his tricks, but one far harder to perform. He couldn't just cast it as a spell - it was more like channelling the backlash of his acceleration.

He figured he'd been waiting for a couple of hours, which meant that he only had a few seconds before the magic snapped back into place and time resumed as normal. He looked to the door, expecting to see Rita Skeeter walking back in, only to furrow his brow in confusion. The door remained shut. The handle wasn't even turning. Nobody was coming into the room that way.

The flow of time returned to normal, and Harry realized his mistake. He still couldn't see Skeeter, but the buzzing of wings could only mean one thing. Harry grinned. This was perfect. He'd planned to cajole and persuade Skeeter into airing dirty laundry, playing on her natural vitriol to his own ends, but this opportunity was too good to pass up. If the story was a carrot, he'd walked right into the stick.

Skeeter transformed back into her form, and slouched in her chair, staring at her desk. She looked exhausted. Harry guessed that flying around all day snooping was tiring work, though somehow he couldn't bring himself to sympathise with her.

As soon as she was in her human form, Harry tapped himself on the head with his wand, cancelling the disillusionment.

"Bribery, blackmail, and a beetle animagus," he said, trying to resist the urge to smirk. "Has a nice bit of alliteration to it, doesn't it?"

Skeeter's reaction was immediate. She jumped, startled by his sudden appearance, attempted to grab her wand, and fell out of her chair.

Harry simply laughed.

"If you think you can come in my own office and blackmail me," Skeeter blustered, but Harry cut her off.

"Easy there, I didn't come here to grab your secrets. I'm more interested in sharing someone else's. Got a story for you, don't I?" he asked, hoping she'd take the bait.

Skeeter pulled herself upright and regained her composure, but Harry noticed that her hand remained in the pocket of her robes. He suspected he wouldn't lose any money betting that her wand was in there.

"I should just Obliviate you and throw you out for trespassing," Skeeter bit out, glaring at Harry, who was paying a great deal of attention to the fact that she hadn't tried to yet. He took that as a sure sign that she was interested in what he had to offer. Cautious, yes, and likely dangerous if she felt threatened after having her secret uncovered so easily, but eager for whatever pieces of slander she could dredge up from her mystery visitor.

"Potter's in Mungo's," said Harry.

Ah. That did it. Harry saw the wariness in her expression turn into greed. This was exactly what he'd been hoping for. He knew what she wanted, having been the victim of it too many times to count. He waited a second for her to speak. Another second passed. Another. He began to feel the barest edge of concern, and then she pulled open her handbag to reveal a notebook and quick-quotes quill.

He couldn't help it. Harry grinned.

"This is all being hushed up. Department of Mysteries is all over it. Keep my name out of this, and I'll keep your beetle to myself. Deal?"

"I'll keep your secrets if you keep mine," Skeeter said breathily. She was suckered in. Harry gave the story a quick run-through in his head, and then jumped right into it.

"So I was in St Mungo's last night. Potions accident. Don't ask. Just me and the sod at the front desk. Told me I had to wait four bleeding hours to be seen, and I was the only one there! Disgrace, what this country's coming to. But that's why I'm here, right? You've always been one to speak up. Tell the truth about what those Ministry nitwits are tryna hide. I knew you'd have the guts to run the story, no matter what politician came stomping down to cover it up. Always admired you for that," Harry said, leering at Skeeter. He felt like vomiting, but he knew how the woman's mind worked.

True to form, she preened at what she saw as a compliment to her prowess as a journalist. When Harry was sure she was looking, he eyed her up and down, paying attention to the curves beneath her robes. She didn't interest him in the slightest, any more than she was interested in the attention of his aged body, but the lecherous act had its purpose. If Skeeter thought he was just a sleazy old man, stupid enough to believe the trash she wrote, and gullible enough to be used for her own ends, Harry could turn that back on her.

"I never hide the truth," proclaimed Skeeter. Harry stifled his snort of derision. Luckily, she didn't hear it over the sound of her own voice. "But you still haven't got to the juicy part. Potter at St Mungo's? Was he injured?"

"That's the thing, he wasn't. Not in any normal way. That's why those Unspeakables were there. Overheard them talking. Damn kid was fooling around with a Time-Turner. Who the hell would give a kid one of those? I dunno what he was doing with it, but somehow the damn thing exploded. They've got no idea what's happening to him. He could die!" exclaimed Harry, faking a note of maudlin glee.

The despicable woman opposite him was every bit as enthused about this as he'd hoped.

"Oh yes," she murmured. "Terribly irresponsible. Favouritism for the Boy-Who-Lived, letting him play with such dangerous artifacts? And such incompetence from the Ministry. Time-Turners are highly regulated. Did he get it on the black market, I wonder? A leak in the Department of Mysteries? Or did they just give their favourite boy an extra special toy to play with?"

The expression on her face was truly awful, and it was everything Harry had come here to get.

"I expect they'll deny everything," said Harry.

"They always do," said Skeeter. "But our readers deserve the truth, don't they?"

After extricating himself from Skeeter's clutches with the promises of future collaboration and malice, Harry felt the need to have a hot shower in FiendFyre to get the grimy feeling off his hands. Was her perfume so insidious that it stuck to him through a mere handshake. Harry grimaced, and cast a quick _scourgify_ on his palm.

It didn't hurt a thing. Now that was a surprise. As that particular charm as intended to be used on objects, not people, it often felt a little like it cleaned by scraping a piece of sandstone over the recipient of the Scouring Charm.

Guessing that the substance was liquid in nature, Harry opted for a more specialised cleaning charm. _Tergeo_ didn't work, either. Commonly used to remove stains like grease, potion spills, and, more commonly in Harry's experience, blood, it should have done the trick. He'd seen Snape use it every other lesson to remove makeup from teenage students. Snape had always given sneering lectures about proper codes of conduct and adhering to the principles of school uniform and decorum while within his classroom, but Harry was pretty sure he just liked the look of terror whenever he got the opportunity to point his wand in a student's face.

Harry looked down at his hand in surprise. Well now. Looks like the beetle had a few more tricks up - and out of - her sleeve than just her animagus trick. Whatever gunk was coating his hand proved entirely immune to the Scouring Charm.

He grimaced. Mystery sticky subjects were worrying, even in the Muggle world. Although those were for much less ominous reasons. Harry had used them to his advantage in the past, himself, although in truth he couldn't claim credit for it.

In the past - or future, now, he supposed, Snape had come up with a rather ingenious solution that was every bit as sticky as Rita and slimy as Snape. At Harry's suggestion, he'd been able to develop a potion which, upon being struck by magic, would incinerate everything within several feet with a blast of white-hot fire. Snape had doused a set of Voldemort's robes with it, and sat back to watch and wait.

It took an infuriating amount of time for Voldemort to wear those robes. The bastard had an annoying trend of transfiguring clothing instead of keeping it, but those robes were a gift from Lucius Malfoy, and he'd worn them to a dinner held in Lucius's honour, to celebrate a recent victory.

Naturally the order had attacked, focusing all their efforts on Voldemort. Even a Tickling Hex would have ignited the potion, but not even Moody could land a hit on the slippery bastard. With a dozen other Death Eaters in the room, the Order members were being picked off one by one until, in a final act of desperation, Snape blew his cover and shot the Killing Curse at the Dark Lord's back.

Only Voldemort's shock at the betrayal kept Snape alive, but his confidence in the situation was shaken. Without knowing if any more traitors lay in his ranks, he decided to make a tactical retreat, and Apparated away.

For a moment Harry thought that their plan had failed, not daring to wonder which of his friends lay dead on the floor.

And then the potion struck. Moving his robes as well as his body, Voldemort's Apparition had triggered it with the necessary flux of magic.

He screamed with inhuman agony as it began. First his robes crackled as if with static electricity, tendrils of blue and white scattered across the fabric, but it rapidly built into a blinding flash of heat and light.

For a moment Voldemort was a figure of solid white light, save for the vibrant red glow of his eyes. He looked for all the world like a fallen angel, hell-bent on vengeance.

And then he exploded. It was messy.

A concussive wave of force and fire emanated out from where he'd been standing. The Death Eaters caught the worst of it, knocked back on their feet and covered in burns. The distraction was enough for the order to gather the fallen bodies of their comrades and disappear.

Harry, ignoring the blistering pain as he ran through the air still charged with heat and magic, sprinted past where Voldemort had stood, and grabbed Snape by the arm.

After Voldemort, Snape had suffered the worst of the blast, as he had been standing so close. He resembled a charred corpse more than a person, and for a moment Harry feared the worst. He wasn't moving.

Harry paused. How do you check for a pulse under burns like these? Was the man even alive?

"Idiot boy," hissed Snape. Harry grinned. That was good enough for him. He grabbed Snape's arm and prepared to Disapparate, only to interrupted by the cheers of the Death Eaters remaining.

Harry looked backwards in horror. That couldn't be good.

It wasn't.

Where Voldemort had stood, a black mist had formed, growing more tangible by the second. Soon it resembled a wraith of Voldemort, like a twisted Patronus Charm fuelled by hate. The apparition took a step forward, and solidified further. The mist began to dissipate, slowly transforming back into the form of the self-proclaimed immortal Lord Voldemort. Harry had never believed those rumours to be anything more than Death Eater propaganda, but for the first time, he began to fear the worst.

Harry gritted his teeth, torn between frustration and rage. There was nothing he wanted more than to blast that abomination into a thousand pieces if it took a thousand Killing Curses and a jam jar to seal his wraith in, but he had a more pressing matter at hand.

Grabbing Snape tightly by his left arm, above the elbow, he Apparated away before Voldemort could regain a corporeal form.

After landing them both in one of the Order's hidden bunkers, Harry collapsed into a chair, wondering which of his friends he'd lost that night. Surprisingly enough, it was Snape who snapped him out of his misery.

"Did you Splinch me on purpose?" the charred corpse demanded. Okay, it was more of a croak, but Harry had to give him points for effort. Being a dick through unbearable agony was a difficult skill, and one Harry had spent many years practicing.

Harry contemplated lying. Considered claiming that with the desperation of the moment, with Snape's critical injuries,he'd been unable to avoid leaving behind a souvenier. Fuck it, he thought. Snape was a better legilimens than he would ever be, and would eke out the truth eventually. And although they still hated one another, they were still friends, of a sort. The type of bond forged in the terrors of war that went stronger than personal feelings. Comrades, perhaps. Even if all they had in common was mutual loathing of each other and Voldemort.

"Yup," said Harry, and waited for the reaction. Normally he'd have expected a curse, but the man before him was pretty much dead on his feet. Well, the floor. Where Harry had dumped him

Snape looked up and down his unrecognizable left arm, paying particular attention to the part which was missing. Hand. Forearm. Dark Mark.

"Thank you," said Snape, almost too quietly to hear. "I've wanted that thing gone for almost as long as I've had it."

"Lucky accident," said Harry nonchalantly. "Are you going to die?" The two men had long ago learned to be blunt in their dealings with one another. Neither of them flinched from harsh truths, and despised being treated like invalids.

Snape snorted.

"You know I can see through your lies, even if the Dark Lord," said Snape, and then paused, hesitantly. "Even if Voldemort can't." He let out a long sigh. "So this is the price of freedom?"

"Worth it?" asked Harry.

"Ask me again if I survive," snapped Snape, back to his good old self - unconscious on the floor, just the way Harry liked him. He was much more pleasant company that way.

Harry growled, low in his throat, and pulled himself back into the present. For all that Chronomancy offered, the side effects were damn inconvenient at times, even the non-fatal ones.

He tried to remember what he'd been doing before losing himself in memory, but his mind came up blank. Luckily, he had a wand pointed at his hand. A clue!

"Right," he muttered. "Skeeter's goop."

Harry ducked into a dingy-looking nearby shop without bothering to check the sign. He couldn't see anyone at the counter right now, and that should give him enough privacy to cast a few spells of a somewhat dubious nature. He doubted that anyone would recognise them, but a sketchy old man casting spells at his hand would inevitably look suspicious enough to draw unwanted attention.

He ran a few basic diagnostic charms,and wasn't too surprised when the first two caused his hand to flash in confirmation. Basic recording and tracking charms. Harry rolled his eyes. He'd expected such things during the war, but Skeeter was one sneaky bitch. Out of habit, he ran through his usual assortment of safety checks, but the rest came up clean, save one. A self-replicating charm attached to the potion stuck to his skin. He prodded at it with his wand, careful not to make contact.

Huh. It was charmed to spread onto Dumbledore if they ever touched, but nobody else. A clever bit of spellwork, and cunning besides. Harry knew of Skeeter's love for tearing into Dumbledore in the press, but he hadn't even noticed her casting the spell, and making one so specialised was particularly difficult. He supposed that, as a witness to an incident featuring Harry Potter, she expected the headmaster to pay him as visit sometime soon. Harry's respect for Rita's sleuthing went up a notch. Pity she applied her talents to tabloid journalism instead of something more useful. She could have been a great help in the war if Hermione hadn't used her for a potion ingredient.

Turns out beetle eyes and animagus beetle eyes didn't work the same way in a cauldron, but Harry was pretty sure that Hermione was well aware of that. Only Harry and Snape had ever known. It was one of the few times Harry had seen Snape congratulate somebody outside Slytherin on their brewing process.

Harry's reminiscing was interrupted by soft footfalls coming from the back of the store. He swore, considered disillusioning himself and slipping out, but quickly disregarded that plan. Too obvious, and would raise too many questions if he was too slow with the spell, or the shopkeeper saw a door open and close with nobody moving through it.

Harry turned to face the music, and found himself eye to eye with Ollivander. Another lost friend from the future. He smiled at the sight of his mentor, careful to tone it down to a level more polite than personal.

"Charlus Potter?" he whispered, in that eerie voice of his. Too much time dabbling in arcanistry had left Ollivander a touch on the weird side - although Harry could hardly criticize the wandmaker for something he was doing himself, albeit in a different field of study. But that train of thought was immediately diverted by the amusement at being mistaken for yet another member of the Potter family. He briefly entertained the thought of transforming into a baby and revealing himself as Harry's illegitimate child, but Ollivander was still speaking, so he shelved that idea for another time.

"I had thought you long ago passed from this world. I can understand the need to hide from He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, but he has been gone these past thirteen years. Thirteen years, Charlus! And what of your family?"

Whoa. I'd never seen Ollivander this riled up before. I didn't even know that he was friends with my grandfather. For all our time together, our conversation had been sparing, and devoted to our wand-work. We'd spent a fair bit of time together, but I didn't really know Ollivander that well, beyond his passion for his work. There was no alternative. I had to wing it as best I could.

Thankfully my plan for this whole time travel escapade had featured lies, larceny, and the meagre hope of not getting caught, so at least this surprise attack played to my strengths.

"It was for my family, Garrick," I said softly. The shame in my voice was real, although more at lying to Ollivander than for whatever perceived betrayal he say in my grandfather.

"Faking your death, with a son so young? It may have distracted the Dark forces eager to coerce you into their ranks, but had you no thought of his wellbeing? Alone, at such a time!"

Harry was startled at this sudden revelation. He'd discovered how his grandparents had died in one of Voldemort's attacks a long time ago, but this - this accusation that he had acted like Pettigrew and abandoned the people dear to him out of fear, why, it brought Harry dangerously close to losing his temper. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, trying to keep the frustration out of his voice. Ollivander thought he was talking to another man. About another crime which had not been committed. Harry felt truly lost, but decided to let the situation play out, and see if he could gain another ally in this important time. Even if under false pretenses.

He took a moment to consider his next words, and when he spoke, it was with sincere regret in his voice. After all, Harry understood the bitterness of losing a family.

"He had his friends. They were family to us, Garrick. If we could keep them out of the Dark Lord's attention for just a while, just until -" Harry's voice faltered as he failed to think of a suitable excuse, but he quickly masked it with emotion. He didn't need to fake the longing in his voice at the thought of the family he might have had. "I had hoped it would be enough to keep them safe until we could. None of us could have seen what followed."

"Teenagers are no match for parents, however close that bond may have been. And we all know how that turned out, don't we? James, Lily, and Pettigrew dead, Sirius turned to the Dark Lord, and now escaped from Azkaban!" The anger in Ollivander's posture was almost palpable. Had he been any other man, Harry wouldn't be surprised to see a wand in his hand. This was the most human Harry had ever seen him. He supposed that time changes everyone, and rarely for the better, especially given what times they'd lived through.

So this was what he thought? His friend had run away, abandoning his children to die. Harry didn't blame Ollivander for his rage, but was still startled by this overt display of emotion from a man who could teach Dumbledore a thing or two about maintaining a mysterious and abstract persona.

"It felt right at the time. Do you think a day goes by when I don't regret what happened that Halloween?"

Ollivander sighed, and rubbed at his cheek.

"I didn't just mean James, Charlus. No wizard alive could have missed the story. The legend, even, dare I say it. The Boy-Who-Lived. Boy!" Ollivander's last word was in a raised tone, almost a shout, and it took all of Harry's composure not to flinch. Harry could beat Voldemort himself in a staring contest, but Voldemort was an angry bastard. The anger of a man so composed as Ollivander was more frightening by far, no matter that there was no expectation of torture or dismemberment to follow his wrath.

Harry did his best to hold his tongue. He had stronger feelings than anyone else on this matter, but it was rare that he heard somebody else's opinion - and whenever he had in the past, they were heavily biased by coming from somebody he was close to.

"I remember seeing him come for his first wand," said Ollivander quietly. "He went through almost my entire stock before finding his match. I see so many students come through, terrified of never finding one. Of being revealed as a Squib and disowned, or Muggleborns who couldn't believe they were capable of such wonders as magic has to offer."

Ollivander paused for a moment, setting his hands on the counter wearily. Harry watched him curiously.

"From the day He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named was vanquished, I suspected which wand would be right for him, but I did my best to find another. To spare him yet another burden. Alas, it was as I'd feared. Brother wands, holly and yew. Phoenix feather." Ollivander remained silent for a long time, and then looked up at Harry sharply.

"You've guessed who bought the other wand."

Harry nodded, unsure of what else he could say.

"He came in alone, you know. Not uncommon. Choosing a wand is a private affair. But there was no family waiting outside. I watched for some time after he left. Hagrid took him around the Alley for his supplies."

"Hagrid's a good man," said Harry, defensively.

"And yet when the other Muggle-raised students come to Diagon Alley, they don't just come with a magical escort. Their parents or guardians come with them. See the world which their child is entering. It is a profound moment. The one which bridges the gap between us and them"

Ollivander remained silent for a long time, now, but Harry knew that this was just his way, and waited for him to speak again.

"You should have been there, Charlus. I don't know where he lives or who it may be with. But I remember a boy in Muggle clothes worn threadbare, and shaped to a boy much larger than himself. I remember glasses held together with sellotape. And I remember how small he was, even for an eleven-year-old. I remember the bruises on his arms. But most of all I remember the wonder in his eyes as he held his wand, and my store was lit with phoenix song and joy."

Ollivander sighed, and looked over Harry's appearance.

"It looks like times haven't been easy for you, either."

"Nobody could find Harry Potter," said Harry, remembering the extensive blood wards set over Privet Drive. "I spent years. A fortune. Nothing worked, magic or Muggle."

"You could have simply asked," admonished Ollivander.

Harry had no answer, and stared, dumbstruck at Ollivander, who, to Harry's shock, laughed gently.

"You Potters. Tear the world apart when you need to, but you never stop to ask for help. Harry is at Hogwarts. Dumbledore will surely reunite the boy with his grandfather. I could owl him for you, request a meeting. He needs a family."

Harry didn't know what to say. Ollivander had always been distant, and even as a child, few had shown Harry such a simple act of compassion. But that was one thing. Ollivander worked closely with children, so it made sense for him to care for their wellbeing. It was widely known that Harry's Muggle relatives were distasteful. Most wizards assumed it was the simple fact that they were Muggles. Ollivander had noticed what ran deeper. Not the rough treatment, or the lack of care. The fact that, blood aside, they were not family. That he was alone.

It had been a long time since he had thought of such things, but the sudden upwelling of emotion reminded Harry that he had never truly forgotten. His friends had been as close as family. He had come a long way from the boy in the cupboard under the stairs. And yet it was with emotion thick in his voice that he said farewell to Ollivander.

"Thank you," he said. "But it might be best if I approach Dumbledore myself. He'll want answers that I wouldn't trust to an owl."

"As you wish, Charlus." Ollivander was silent until Harry opened the shop door, and the bell tinkling overhead interrupted his thoughts. "Charlus!" he said sharply, interrupting Harry's departure. Harry turned back to face the wandmaker. "I cannot forgive you for abandoning the boy. You may have had some good - if misguided intentions in leaving your son and daughter-in-law. I disagree, but understand. But Harry was an infant. Your grandson. I'll wait to hear why you failed him before I judge you for it, but…" Never comfortable with displays of emotion, Ollivander trailed off.

"That's an interesting wand," he called out to Harry's departing back. "I don't recognize the wandmaker, though, and there aren't too many of us."

Yeah, the question was obvious bait, but that suited Harry just fine.

"I made it myself," he shot back over his shoulder. "Maybe you could take a look at it for me. I'll owl you."

The door banged shut behind Harry before Ollivander could respond.

As soon as he was back out in the busy street, he remembered the spying solution Rita had planted on him. He bit back a curse, and then sighed. He had blackmail material if need be, but there was a chance that this could add another article to work in his favour. Unfortunately, that meant another meeting with his least favourite potion ingredient.

Going over the conversation he'd had with Ollivander in his head, Harry decided that there was nothing incriminating in their conversation. If Rita jumped the gun, she'd publish articles that worked to his advantage, but if the sneakery she'd shown so far was any indication, she'd hold off on setting anything out into the world without speaking to him first. He doubted she'd risk the enmity of somebody who knew her secret. At least, not without trying to squeeze some more juicy details out of him.

If he didn't speak to her first, Harry fully expected to be cornered by the witch and her photographer at some point, demanding answers for Harry's abandonment in the Muggle world, and quizzing Charlus on why he hadn't taken in his grandson, on why he'd faked his death, and why he'd fled Britain when the country desperately needed the support of all members of the Wizengamot. It'd probably happen regardless, but hopefully he could put the right spin - or censorship - into the mix.

Nevertheless, he resolved to keep to a younger form from now on. Going even older might also work as a disguise, but Harry was hesitant to push it too far in that direction. He'd once tried to make it to an even hundred years old, and almost died as a result. Wizards could live longer than Muggles, of course, but that was due to their magic adapting with their bodies. If he pushed himself too far, he had no doubt that he'd wind up dying too rapidly to undo the process. Sure, he'd come out the other end alive, be it ten years or a thousand, but the life expectancy of anybody a millennium old was bound to be a matter of seconds.

Initiating contact with Skeeter was the first part of his plan. Ollivander had been a surprise, but one that he could work with. Now the rest of the day was his. He slipped into an empty alleyway and disillusioned himself. A moment later he was back to being seventeen.

Harry grinned.

A quirk of his Chronomancy, as applied to him, was that even though he retained his memories, he was very much, body and mind, a seventeen year old. That was a wonderful and terrible thing.

Legally able to cast magic, morally bound by whims and fancy, and with all this free time to kill before he had any real work to do! Although Harry was eager to get back to Hogwarts, the opportunity to mess with people for the sheer pleasure of it and not just to avoid widespread murder was a wonderful thing.

Rita's article would likely make the evening edition of the Daily Prophet. Front page, he was willing to bet, despite the utter lack of proof and no witness testimony save from the infamous Anonymous Tip. Of course, Skeeter knew that Anonymous Tip was Charlus Potter now, and that would have to be dealt with, but all things in their time!

As Harry was supposed to be in hospital, he kept himself disillusioned and wandered Diagon Alley for a while. He considered shoplifting his school textbooks for the year head, but quickly disregarded that as too much of a bother. They'd be annoyingly heavy to carry. Besides, the Hogwarts Library had a wider selection than Flourish and Blotts, and they were free! The best part about money, Harry had always thought, was that you never really needed to spend it if you were clever, connected, or criminally inclined. Even if his fourteen-year old self hadn't really appreciated it as he did now, Harry was rather proud of his "three Cs". An integral part of wizarding education that seemed sadly lacking on the Hogwarts Curriculum.

While walking aimlessly about, looking for ways to amuse himself, Harry found himself faced with almost irresistible temptation. The Malfoy family, wearing matching sneers, were marching imperiously towards Gringotts.

It was definitely the teenager in Harry which spoke up first, urging him to give Draco a little treat. Funny how age gaps meant so much more while you were at school. Seventeen and you're an adult, eleven and you're a child. Fourteen, and you're caught in that dreaded nether-realm of puberty. It would be almost a kindness, Harry thought. A little judicious time-leech to alter Malfoy the way that Harry had been doing to himself all day. He remembered Malfoy's school days. Poor anger management, attempts to impress others constantly with boasts and posturing. The poor boy would surely be better off without all those hormones running around making him act like a fool.

Just a little leech, maybe two years, and Draco would be back to being a squeaky second-year. Harry wondered if he'd write an incensed letter to Daddy Death Eater about the horrible way his pubes had disappeared, and his shoes didn't fit.

Oh, Harry was tempted. He twirled his wand idly between his fingers, half-tempted to actually follow through with it, but in the end his better judgement won out. It was one thing for Harry's age to start fucking about, but there would only be trouble if he got Draco involved. Maybe later, after the news of Harry Potter's tragic accident had died down. Ah, fuck it. Harry couldn't bring himself to be that cruel to a child. At least not until he'd pissed him off enough.

If he was honest with himself, Draco didn't really deserve that sort of humiliation. He was just a spoiled brat with no life experience beyond what Lucius indoctrinated in him. Still, Harry's urge to taunt the Malfoys was too strong to resist, so he decided to go down a different route.

Maneuvering through the crowded street was difficult enough at the best of times, but that want doubly so when you were trying to move quickly and were tantamount to being invisible. Only his experience at doing this exact same thing stopped him from being barrelled to the ground or trodden on. Amazing how successful a point blank assassination in a public place could be, when the prison system found its coffers too empty and its cells too full.

Harry's intentions were a lot less lethal this time, but his reflexes were up to the job nonetheless. It was a pity that this particular aspect of Chronomancy required physical contact, or he could have skipped the Diagon Alley obstacle course.

Finally he reached the Malfoys, just as they were walking up the steps to Gringotts. The goblins on guard duty gave him a glance, but didn't say anything. Guards to the premier bank in the country tended to be trained to watch for the distortion patterns of disillusionment, but they didn't interfere with Wizarding business, though Harry could catch them watching surreptitiously, so he knew he'd be fine so long as he didn't try to enter the bank. The cold-hearted bastards would watch a murder on their doorstep and not do a damn thing, except maybe close the doors if it was a messy one.

Harry placed his wand as deep as he dared into Narcissa's hair, tightly wound as it was into a bun, and murmured an incantation. Of sorts.

"Saggy tits and a wrinkly arse," he whispered in Gobbledygook. It was one of half a dozen phrases he knew in that language, and of those six, the only one which wasn't an insult was "What's for dinner?"

Goblins ears are a lot more sensitive to sounds than humans, and by the amused glances the guard goblins gave each other, they'd definitely heard. Being magical creatures, they were more sensitive to magic as well, although Harry'd bet his left knut that neither of them knew what he'd done. They'd guess a glamour or charm of some kind, and laugh about it over their after-shift tankards of goblin ale.

Harry had developed quite a taste for the stuff before he'd learned how it was made.

As he had no intention of spending any money today, Harry walked jauntily away from Gringotts, and wondered how long it would take his little bit of tinkering to ruin their sex life. He was still smirking at his little prank when he reached the Magical Menagerie.

He paused outside, shook his head, and reminded himself of a conclusion that he'd come to a long time ago. Harry wasn't a prankster. He was just a bit of a bastard with a creative streak. The difference was slim, true, but Harry preferred to admit it than hide behind ideas of moral superiority and vengeance. just liked to fuck with people he thought were stupid, annoying, or out to kill him. And he saw nothing wrong with that.

Somebody jostled into Harry from behind, almost knocking him over. Harry scowled, and reached for his wand, about to hex the imbecile who'd charged into him - but then realised he was standing disillusioned in front of a busy shop's front door, and it was entirely his own fault. But more importantly, the wizard was roughly the size of Vernon Dursley, and was blocking the doorway. So Harry compromised by stealing the wizard's hat.

The wizard flinched at the sudden rush of cold air, and looked around for the thief, but Harry had stuck it onto his own head at a jaunty angle, and added it to the disillusionment. He watched for a while as the wizard alternately glared at passers-by and scrutinized the ground in case it had fallen off, but had no success in finding it. Luckily for Harry, the wizard had the patience of Vernon Dursley, too, and soon stormed off in anger, no doubt to report his grievances to the nearest patron of the Leaky Cauldron.

Harry stepped quickly aside as the wizard rushed through the space he'd just been standing in, and then slipped behind him, using the man's bulk as a cover to cancel the disillusionment.

It was probably a waste of time coming here, as Harry was pretty sure he knew the answer to the question on his mind, but he had to be sure. The store was a cacophony of every species known to wizardkind below XX rating and two feet high. He wandered through the maze-like walls of the store, reflecting on its resemblance to a library, should the books be replaced with very loud, very colourful caged beasts. Harry recognised a few of them from potions class. Or at least extrapolated what they were from certain parts of their anatomy, which he'd sliced, diced, and crushed all too many times.

He tried not to think about which of the creatures in front of him had been shoved down his throat in liquid form.

As if by magic, a store clerk popped up at his shoulder, an eager smile on his face.

"I see you've found our fire crab!" he claimed jubilantly. "A rather exquisite specimen, don't you think? They're a protected species, you know. We're the only menagerie in all of Britain allowed to sell them!"

Harry looked at it dubiously.

"This is the last we have in stock, I'm afraid. First day of August is supposed to be delivery day, but those international Floos and fire-creatures - oh, and fire crabs can't be imported by just anyone, after all, no they can't!"

Having grown long used to drowning out all sorts of distracting noises, from the cheering of Quidditch fans to the screams which accompanied a Dementor attack, Harry was well equipped to deal with an overzealous shopkeeper. He gave him a wayward glance, and noticed just how forced the smile was.

"I wasn't aware that any exceptions were made to the importation of fire crabs. Although those are exquisite rubies on its carapace. Quite a profit to be made on those, wouldn't you think?" said Harry, quietly but coldly, as if to himself.

"Oh no,no, this is a beautiful creature, not just jewellery with a crab underneath. We were ever so lucky to get them. Some kind of Ministry contract, but they never gave us the details, only said that they'd finished their project. Sold them to us for a fraction of their worth, I tell you!"

"Sounds like quite the tale," said Harry dryly.

"You have no idea. They tried to get use to take on manticores, as well. Manticores! Can you imagine, one of the most dangerous magical beasts in a pet store?" the clerk tittered nervously, his eyes roving between the fire crab and Harry.

"Good thing I'm not here for a manticore, then," said Harry.

"Indeed, indeed. So, for the fire crab, we'd normally ask for five hundred galleons, but as the Ministry offered us such an excellent bargain, it seems only fair to pass it on to you. How does three hundred and fifty sound?"

Even if Harry had wanted to buy the crab, the clerk had been annoying enough that he'd rather Apparate to Fiji and catch his own with a harpoon.

"Actually," began Harry," I'm more interested in snakes."

"Oh, okay," the clerk said, disappointment clear in his voice. "The tank over by the South wall. You can't miss it. Next to the tarantulas," he added nastily.

Harry chuckled. After not only escaping a colony of Acromantula in his Second Year, but riding one under the Imperius Curse into battle with a mob of enraged Quintapeds, spiders smaller than a house didn't really bother him.

He made his way over to the tank, and stared into it until one of the snakes met his gaze.

"Hello?" he asked, speculatively.

The snake ignored him, and curled around one of the twigs decorating their tank.

"Hiss?" he tried, expecting nothing. His expectations were fulfilled, and a broad smile split open his face. Nothing! It had worked. Junior's horcrux was gone. Harry had been afraid that it would transfer over to him. After all, Junior wasn't really dead, just moved around a bit. Into Harry's head.

"What are you doing?" demanded the clerk, obviously irate about his wasted spiel about the fire crab, and cottoning onto the idea that Harry was taking the piss.

"Just checking if I'm a Parselmouth," he said. The clerk said nothing, but stared at him in wide-eyed horror.

"Hiss," said Harry again, and the clerk flinched.

"Guess I'm not one after all. Who knew?" Harry asked, a cheek grin on his face. The clerk spluttered for a moment, his face turning a rather fetching shade of puce, before pointing his finger at the door.

"If you're not here to purchase anything, you can just get out! This is a respectable establishment!"

"Sure thing," said Harry, doing exactly as he was told and walking straight out of the for the part when he grabbed a bag of doggie treats for Sirius from the counter and Disapparated before the clerk could protest.


	3. Chapter 3

_A/N: I had hoped to keep author notes to a minimum, but I thought I'd leave a little message here explaining my writing process. In an attempt to get myself writing every day, I'm writing these chapters in three sections of 2-3,000 words each, to be posted every third day in full, a minimum of 7,500 words long, and hopefully no more than 10,000. That tricky work/life balance is even trickier when your hobby is writing, which is another form of work, albeit one that I enjoy doing. I write this fic for the sheer pleasure of it, but all of your reviews help motivate me to keep on writing._

 _I would like to add a word of warning - don't take first impressions of characters and situations too dearly to heart. Things are not as under control as Harry would like to think, and I'm writing from his biased point of view. I'd also like to apologise for the few slip-ups, mostly rookie shifts between first and third person. I haven't written in third person for over a year despite writing regularly, so it was a tough habit to beat, but I think I'm getting better at it. I fully intend on going back and giving these chapters a full overhaul and editing once I've gotten into the meat of the story, but for now I'm trying to push myself to produce work at a regular rate without slacking off, so that'll be a little bit into the future. I can't speak for any of you, but I'm usually more eager for the next chapter of a fic than to re-read a slightly better version of something I've already seen._

Although Harry had intended to return to Privet Drive, he was all too aware of Skeeter's tracking charm, still stuck to his hand like Snape's eyes to his mother's arse. Harry shivered at the mental image, accidentally stolen during a legilimency training session.

Since Privet Drive was out of bounds - no love lost there - Harry had Apparated to Hogsmeade. He considered using The Three Broomsticks, but that was a bit too public, and The Hog's Head would fit a bit more with the image he was trying to cultivate with Rita. As he'd Apparated onto the edge of the village, it was a fair walk away, but Harry didn't mind the opportunity to stretch his legs. It'd be quicker to just toss a quick Finite Incantatem on the goop clinging to his hand, but that wouldn't get rid of the actual substance, and cancelling it so obviously would make it clear to Rita that he'd discovered her trick. A Vanishing Charm would do the he'd caught another of her tricks was something Harry wanted to keep in reserve for future dealings with her.

No, he reasoned. Best to use a substance well-known for cleaning unwanted dirt, magic, and brain-cells alike. Firewhiskey.

After all, at seventeen, he was overage! Harry wondered if the Ministry would acknowledge it, but since all their diagnostic magic would agree he was seventeen, he was sure he'd be able to get away with a fair bit, unless confronted by a bureaucrat who had the audacity to count to seventeen and realise that there were a few numbers missing. Harry wasn't sure what he believed in more strongly: a Ministry employee's inability to count, or their desire to meddle with his life.

But the Ministry was irrelevant in the bigger picture. Only two things really mattered. The first was crossing Dumbledore's Age Line, and the second was getting served at the bar. Another reason to favour The Hog's Head. Less questions asked, more goats to frolic with.

The pub was as grimy as always, and Aberforth stood in his classic pose behind the bar, ruining a perfectly clean glass by rubbing at it with a filthy rag. Harry strode up to the bar, and took one of the stools furthest from the only other patron, who looked suspiciously like a vampire. He didn't look too happy, either. Harry supposed that he'd stayed out too late drinking - pointedly not speculating what he might have been drinking - and got caught here by the sun rising.

"Firewhiskey," he said. Aberforth gave him a suspicious look, then shrugged, and pulled out a bottle of thick brown glass. Harry didn't miss the lack of a label. Definitely not Ogden's finest, but it'd do. Chances were high that it was homebrewed. Aberforth poured it into a disappointingly small tumbler, and set it down in front of him.

Harry took the opportunity to nick Aberforth's rag, and poured the shot of firewhiskey over his hand, then scrubbed at it with the rag until Skeeter's foul concoction was gone. He wasn't sure whether it would be destroyed by the liquor or just separated from his hand and soaked into the rag, but either way suited him. Skeeter could no longer track him, and he rather enjoyed the thought of it misleading her in a hundred directions, spread from Aberforth's cleaning cloth into the drinks and mouths of a hundred sleazy pubgoers.

Aberforth frowned at the waste, doubtlessly more annoyed that Harry had deliberately spilled his drink than at the mess, if the state of the pub was any indication. Hell, the floor was covered in a layer of straw, and there was a goat in the corner!

"Four sickles," he grunted. Harry couldn't tell if he was actually annoyed with what Harry had just done, or was just being himself. Aberforth had never been the most friendly individual.

"Eight," corrected Harry, handing over the proper number of coins. "I'll have another."

Aberforth gave him a suspicious look, and made no move to refill Harry's now-empty shot glass.

"To drink, this time. Got something foul on my hand at the apothecary," Harry explained. Either his lie was good enough, or Aberforth just didn't give a shit, but the bartender topped up his glass regardless, and swept up the pile of sickles.

Harry knocked it back in one go, and grimaced. That's right, he remembered. He hadn't started drinking properly until he was in his twenties. This body wasn't accustomed to the burn of strong liquor, and firewhiskey had a burn all of its own.

The burning sensation of firewhiskey was magical in nature, and felt more like actual fire than Muggle whiskey, but it soon passed, leaving Harry with growing sense of elation and courage. Not that he needed any help in the bravery department, but the nice little mood-booster was a welcome addition.

Harry sat at the bar for a while, occasionally ordering other drinks to prevent Aberforth from kicking him out for loitering. The weight made by his bag of doggie treats in the pocket of his robes was a constant reminder of Sirius. He had no idea where on earth to find his godfather, though he remembered that he'd been out of the country at the time.

Trying to think back his the summer before his fourth year at Hogwarts, Harry remembered tropical birds delivering all of Sirius' letters. Obviously the old dog was recuperating from his time in Azkaban, and enjoying some sun after twelve years with nothing but Dementors to warm his cell. He tried thinking back to that time, to see if there were any clues in the letters as to how he could find Sirius.

A side-effect of the time-travel was that he hadn't truly killed his younger self. There were two Harry Potter bodies in that moment, but still technically only one Harry Potter. Killing his younger self was just the choice of which one of them would continue to exist, as the method he'd used to transport himself backwards didn't allow for two copies of the same person to exist concurrently.

This made it easier to recall his younger years, as he'd essentially absorbed the spirit of his younger self. The memories he was seeking after were closer to the surface, as if he really had experienced them in the last few weeks, and not thirteen years ago.

Suddenly, while searching through his newly accumulated memories, which hung vibrantly in his mind as if he was watching them in a pensieve, Harry felt a cold chill run up his spine, and a pain in his scar. He hadn't felt anything from his scar since killing the horcrux within it.

"Fuck Merlin. Fuck Merlin and fuck his beard," Harry swore. This was going to be painful. He felt himself falling forward into the memory, the exact same sensation as falling into a pensieve, but with the agonizing sensation of his time magic flooding his body in discordant notes of power. Magic itself was objecting to the scene he was falling into, trying to tear it apart. Harry knew exactly what this memory was going to be.

It was hard to make sense of anything through the shrieking forces of magic swirling about this memory. Some wizards claimed that magic was alive. If that was true, this was a memory of magic very much alive and pissed off.

A sharp poke in his side pulled his attention away from the thrumming forces in his head, and he realised that his eyes were closed. He opened them, and saw, well, himself. His real self, twenty-seven years old and standing opposite him.

Harry leapt to his feet, staring at himself - the other himself - and the wand he held.

"Dad," he felt himself say. Harry would have grimaced if he could. This wasn't a memory. In a pensieve he was able to walk around freely, in an insubstantial body of his own. This was more like possession. He was eerily reminded of the horcrux visions sent through Voldemort, like when he'd bitten Arthur Weasley with Nagini's mouth. He supposed it made sense. They were both the same soul. It was a similar connection. But it was damn creepy.

"Nope," said the adult Harry cheerily. "Sorry about that, Junior. I'm not trying to trick you here."

Harry felt visions snap before his eyes - memories of his adult life, of the war. Seeing his friends die, and feeling the cold emptiness when he had no strength left in him to mourn their deaths, only the hollow conviction that they would be avenged.

"So who are you?" he felt himself say. But the connection ran deeper than his younger counterpart's body. He could feel his emotions as if they were his own. Well, technically they were. His younger self was terrified by what he was seeing, but could sense that they were genuine. Still, he was making a heroic effort not to show it. Harry was surprised that he hadn't picked up on that when he'd been on the other side of this bizarre act.

"And why are you naked?"

Harry ignored his older body, knowing how the conversation went, instead observing Junior's reaction.

Junior went through confusion, terror, anger, and a brief dialogue between Harry and Harry later, the memory reached the important part. The visions had not stopped throughout their conversation, and Junior was convinced that Harry was telling the truth. The link between them had gone both ways, each absorbing memories from the other as Harry's Chronomancy tore time apart and bled the future and past together.

The older Harry stood, wand pointing at Harry's chest. Harry felt the conviction in his mind, and in Junior's mind. At this point, it was almost impossible to tell which one of them was which.

"Do it," he said, Junior and Harry speaking in perfect synch; the same lips, the same words, and the same will behind them.

"Avada kedavra -"

And that motherfucking hurt.

Harry found himself back out of the memory, breathing heavily, and trembling from the aftershock of the Killing Curse. Well that explained why he'd convinced Junior so easily. By the end of it, he had been Junior. Some sort of temporal bleed effect that he could only begin to guess at. Harry was reminded of all the other Chronomantic experiments that had come very close to giving him a terrible death, and thanked both Merlin's beard and the Sorting Hat's socks that he hadn't fucked himself over.

From his studies, there was a decent chance that he'd have travelled back in time, thinking all that was well, only for the Killing Curse to hit him now, as soon as he absorbed the memory. Fucking temporal discharge. Harry resolved to use other people as test subjects for his more esoteric magic in future, and not himself.

He also took a moment to gather his bearings and noticed that it was almost dark outside. The sun had just set, and he was lying in the dirt outside the entrance to The Hog's Head. Presumably Aberforth had tossed him out after he'd lost consciousness, the way he did with any other patrons. A bit inconsiderate really, seeing as it was the Killing Curse and not an inability to hold his drink that had caused him to pass out.

A sudden twinge in his stomach was all the warning he had, and then Harry staggered to his feet, turning his head, and vomiting noisily, all at the same time. He managed to avoid getting any of it on himself, and leaned back against the wall of the pub, breathing heavily. The puddle at his feet stank of alcohol.

Okay, so maybe the drink had had something to do with it as well, Harry admitted to himself with a grimace. His magic was working fine, but he'd lost his ability to hold his drink. That was beyond embarrassing.

A few more people had shown up in the hours Harry had been lying there unconscious, so there was a fair bit of noise coming from the pub. Harry didn't pay much attention to it when the door creaked open, but grew wary when there were no footsteps. Nobody was that light-footed after a few drinks, and there was only one patron in The Hog's Head who'd be leaving at sundown, just as the revelry was beginning.

The vampire.

Harry cursed, still shook up from the shock of memory and magic that had knocked him cold. Even if he'd been fully rested and in the prime of his strength he wouldn't be able to go toe-to-toe with a vampire. As they were magical beings, they were highly resistant to spells. Fire would hurt them, but not strongly enough or quickly enough to kill one at such close range during the night. Normally he'd just jump back in time to when the sun was up, but he was already back in time. He wouldn't be able to travel backwards himself until he'd caught up to his original time, and he didn't think that this vampire would wait thirteen years before draining his blood.

The monster stepped out of the shadows, and into Harry's line of sight. Harry knew that it was deliberate. It could have killed him in an instant, but vampires liked to play with their food, watching their terror. Harry suspected that it wanted him to run, so it could have the pleasure of chasing him down and overpowering him, but Harry refused to give it the satisfaction. Or his blood, for that matter. But Harry had long ago learned to use Dark creatures' habits to his advantage.

He pressed himself further against the pub wall, avoiding the vampire's gaze. Inside the pub, during the day, it had looked like a pale but handsome man. Under the open night sky its true form was revealed; skin the texture of chalk, and elongated ears and fangs. A pair of slitted eyes mottled with various shades of blood. This one's eyes were more brown than red. The colour of dried blood, not red. That was a bad sign. It meant that it was hungy.

Harry considered accelerating the vampire forwards in time, like he'd done to himself in Skeeter's office, but he'd never tried that on a vampire before. Even if the magic got past its resistance to spells, Harry had no idea if it would work. Being creatures of the living dead, vampires experienced time differently.

No, his Chronomancy was useless here. But at least Honeydukes was close.

"Er...fancy a Blood Pop?" he joked, faking a weak and frightened voice. The vampire's eyes seemed to gleam in the moonlight, and it bared its fangs in amusement.

"Did your mother never tell you...no sweets before dinner?" the creature hissed, entirely oblivious to the silent Summoning Spell which Harry had added to the words Blood Pop. Although he hadn't spoken the incantation itself, saying the name of the object helped add force to the spell, as did the urgency with which he needed it.

The vampire stepped forward slowly, relishing every moment of what it thought was going to come. Anticipation is half the fun of any pleasure, for mortals and monsters alike. The vampire's innate sadism caused him to stalk towards Harry at a glacial pace.

Harry didn't move a muscle, knowing that to the vampire he looked frozen in place by fear, but more importantly that the vampire would be able to move fast enough to grab him if he tried to run or even Apparate. Acting like frightened prey was his only chance.

As the vampire was almost upon him, Harry saw the creature's nostrils flare. It turned its head. Harry grinned. The smell of fresh blood would always distract one of these monsters, and the Blood Pop he'd summoned was on its way. With the tiniest gesture of his wand, Harry altered the path of the Blood Pop, causing it to jam into the vampire's mouth.

Blood was everything to a vampire. It would only distract him for seconds, but those were seconds that Harry had desperately needed. In that moment, he conjured a wooden stake, and positioned himself to ram it through the vampire's heart.

He had only a moment to act. The vampire turned back to Harry, looking ludicrous with a lollipop sticking out of its mouth, and then suddenly ferocious as it saw the stake. It spat out the Blood Pop and lunged at Harry, but Harry's aim was true, and the vampire's own momentum impaled it on the stake.

The force of the monster landing on Harry slammed him into the wall as if he'd been hit by a car, but no fangs broke his skin. The stake had reached the damned creature's heart, and it fell onto Harry in a mockery of an embrace. Not being a fan of necrophilia - or perhaps necrophilia squared, as it was a dead vampire, Harry shoved the corpse onto the ground. It splashed in the puddle of his vomit, and Harry smiled darkly.

Contrary to popular belief, vampires didn't turn into ash when staked. At least, not until the sun came up. Harry didn't want to cause a riot by leaving a dead vampire by the doorway of a pub, so he dragged it around the corner where it would be out of sight from the path, behind a clump of bushes.

As he straightened up from dragging the corpse, Harry dusted himself off, and let out a long breath. He was exhausted, and didn't know what he wanted more, another drink or a bed. He began to walk away from where he'd ditched the corpse, and caught a glimpse of Aberforth watching him through the pub window. Oops.

Perhaps bed would be the better choice, then. Harry didn't really want to answer any awkward questions, and wasn't too sure if Aberforth would serve somebody he'd thrown out only a few hours previously.

Harry Disapparated, heading back to Privet Drive. He hadn't planned on staying there, but he was too tired to go through the hassle of renting a room elsewhere.

Harry woke before any of his relatives, saving him from any unpleasant encounters. The sun had barely begun to rise, and a quick look at his alarm clock showed that it was just past five in the morning. He stretched, wriggling uncomfortably on the mattress, and then gave up on the budding idea of napping a little longer.

Looking around the room, he was reminded of how happy he'd been to finally move out of Privet Drive, despite the terrors that had followed. This time, he had even fewer possessions to pack, because he didn't care for most of what his fourteen year old self had owned. He pulled his trunk out from under the bed, opened the lid, and stared inside speculatively. Most of his magical possessions were inside, gathered together out of the Dursleys' sight, but even though he was making his entry into the wizarding world early this year, he wasn't planning on using most of it.

He intended to buy some decent robes at some point, but was perfectly happy to wander around in transfigured outfits for the near future. Purebloods sneered on this, saying it was a crass action for impoverished wizards, but Harry had never bought into it, assuming that it was a mix of fashion elitism, brand name clothing, and the plain fact that even though just about every Hogwarts graduate could conjure a robe, there were a whole load of them who were lacking in the artistry and taste to make good looking clothing instead of gold-stitched bathrobes.

Putting his Hogwarts robes to one side, Harry rifled deeper into his trunk. He had no intention of carrying this giant chest around with him. Even though he could shrink it, it was a waste. He'd learned to make do with even fewer possessions that he had owned growing up.

Harry Vanished his Potions set and all of the textbooks he'd collected over the years. He didn't need to re-learn how to do magic, and didn't much care for learning history or quotes by rote to get good grades. He hadn't travelled back in time to go to school, after all. It was just a coincidence that the events he was going to be involved in were mainly happening at Hogwarts. After all, Hogwarts was the true heart of Wizarding Britain.

Parchment and ink were always useful, so Harry put them with his robes. Deeper in his trunk he found his Invisibility Cloak and the Marauder's Map. Those were added to the pile. Everything else in his trunk seemed to be old clothes, schoolwork, and other odds and ends that he'd accumulated over the years. He Vanished all of it, and Transfigured the trunk into a much smaller, more manageable bag of soft fabric. But he left the Hogwarts crest on it, out of sentimentality. Hogwarts had always been the place he'd thought of as his true home, after all.

He piled everything into his new bag and swung it onto his shoulder. That was much better. Harry began to Disapparate away from Privet Drive, but with a resounding crack, split his left leg in half, and transported it to the other end of his bedroom.

Fuck. He hadn't Splinched himself in years. Destination, Determination, and Deliberation. It had been hammered into him in the Apparition exam, and refined by years of practice, but in his excitement to leave the Dursley house, he'd been a bit vague about his destination. Apparently "not here" didn't qualify.

In a way, Harry mused, he'd gotten off a lot better than most people who suffered Splinching. They had to endure agony until the medi-wizards popped up, gathering gory jigsaw pieces and reassembling them. Harry just had to hop across the room, trailing blood, and jam his leg back into the stump, muttering a quick charm under his breath. Repairing Splinching was a quick reversal of the Apparition process, so it was a lot easier than actually reattaching severed body were often easier than the spells themselves, after all, and complex healing spells were notoriously difficult to master, which is why magical healers still used potions above anything else; their spells were mostly limited to superficial damage and diagnostic charms.

All he'd lost in his little slip-up was a bit of blood. Okay, a lot of blood, but it wasn't going to do him any lasting harm. Even a Muggle would have recovered from that much blood-loss within a week or two.

Harry briefly considered Vanishing the pool of blood on his bedroom floor, but discarded that thought with a grin. Better to leave a mysterious bloodstain than a goodbye note. Who knows what the Dursleys would think? A mixture of sheer terror and gratitude when he never reappeared, he imagined.

Call it a parting gift.

This time, Harry paid attention to where he was going to go. Since he had such fond memories of it from the day before, he settled on the Hog's Head. Out of the way, few questions asked, rooms to rent, and, he supposed grudgingly, he should check on the vampire he'd killed. They were tricky bastards.

Crack.

Harry appeared around the back of the Hog's Head, and found the vampire's body exactly where he'd left it. Yep, still dead. Although technically it had always been. The body was mostly in the shadows of the surrounding foliage, so it was only just starting to char. Harry checked to see if anyone was watching. Aberforth stood a few metres away holding a shovel, so Harry shrugged, knowing that the man had already seen enough damning evidence and some more wouldn't hurt, and then dragged the vampire out into the full sunlight.

Once the full, undiluted force of the solar spectrum hit the vampire's chalky flesh, it burst into blue-ish grey flames, quickly disintegrating into a pile of ash. Harry considered scooping it up, as Vampire Dust was a potent potion ingredient, but he neither needed the money or the hassle of dealing with the crooked apothecaries in Knockturn Alley just yet.

Instead, Harry left it where it was. The ashes had dangerous properties, but a few hours in the open sun would neutralise that and turn it into inert grave dirt.

"What's with the shovel?" asked Harry, turning to Aberforth, who wore a taciturn, almost unreadable expression. Harry was good at reading people, thanks in no small part due to his dabbling in mind magics, but all he could get from Aberforth was that the man was trying to read Harry in turn. Fair enough, he figured. The two men stared each other down for a bit, both carefully not looking curious about the other.

"Tidying up your mess," said Aberforth, in low tones that bordered on unfriendly.

"Didn't need a shovel for that," said Harry, wiping his hands on his robes. The touch of a vampire was clammy at the best of times, and this fellow had gone rather crispy. Harry didn't want any flakes of burnt skin clinging to his hands. He'd washed his hands of something rather nasty only the night before, after all.

"Didn't want to touch it," growled Aberforth. "Never know when those things are really gone."

"Bet you a galleon?" asked Harry, nodding towards the pile of ash, which was already spreading around in the light morning breeze. Aberforth snorted, and began walking away. "Wait," said Harry. Aberforth stopped moving, but didn't turn around.

"I need a room for a few weeks. What're your rates?"

Aberforth continued walking away, speaking over his shoulder without looking back.

"Rates are seven sickles a night. You vomited all over my floor and passed out drunk, I tossed you outside, and then you killed a paying customer? Forget it."

"I didn't pass out from the drink," argued Harry. Aberforth ignored him. "He was going to kill me! It was only self-defense," he tried again. Aberforth still didn't say anything, but stopped walking away.

"Paying customer," grunted Aberforth. "Rates for you are still fuck off."

"I'll be a paying customer!" cried Harry in frustration. "You're not losing any money. I won't pass out again. Hell, I'll even clean up the vomit!"

At last, Aberforth turned to look at Harry, and for the first time, Harry saw a shade of the other Dumbledore brothers mischievous twinkle in his eyes.

"Fine. But you take his room," he said, jerking his head towards where the vampire had been. "And don't worry about your puke. The goat ate it while you were face down in the straw."

Harry didn't know whether to shudder or groan at the combined imagery, but didn't want to sleep in a former vampire's lair, no matter how many cleaning charms he could remember.

"Why his room?" Harry demanded.

"Biggest," said Aberforth. "Most expensive. Twelve sickles a night."

Harry gritted his teeth in frustration, spotting the obvious lie. The man didn't really care about the money. He was just trying to fuck with him.

"Give me your cheapest room," Harry said, attempting to strike a bargain. "I'll work off the difference while I'm staying here. Two nights a week?"

"Four," said Aberforth. "You staying until Hogwarts opens, right?"

"Yes," growled Harry in reply. He didn't really mind the idea of working in a pub. He'd have a fair bit of free time to spare amongst his errands. But still, he didn't want to have restrictions on his actions more than half the days in the week. "Three nights."

"Learn to hold your drink or we're done. Can't have a barman who can't hold his liquor," needled Aberforth in his usual sour tones.

Harry grimaced at the reminder of his weak, teenage liver, unable to handle the simplest of tasks, and resolved to make the most of his time in The Hog's Head retraining that particular organ in case of emergencies, like Friday nights. But at least that sounded like the closest Aberforth was willing to come to outright saying yes.

"So we have a deal," Harry asked, holding out his hand for Aberforth to shake. The older man spat to one side, and glowered.

"Wash that damn vampire off your hand if you expect me to shake it. And use water this time, not fucking firewhiskey," he snapped, clearly holding a grudge over Harry's action from last night. But evidently not enough to get in the way of their arrangement. As soon as he'd finished speaking, he stormed off back into The Hog's Head, leaving the door open for Harry to follow him.

Harry grinned.

He had a room, a job, and a nefarious plot. Truly, this was the way to live. All he needed was a woman and an evil monster to slay, and he'd be living the dream. He followed along happily in Aberforth's trail.

It took a moment for Harry's vision to adjust to the lighting inside the pub, but once his pupils had dilated accordingly, he took stock of his surroundings. Although there were several large windows, they were all so grimy that hardly any light got in. Given that a vampire had supposedly been a long-term resident, Harry speculated that it might have been on his behalf. Or perhaps Aberforth just liked it this way. Harry honestly couldn't tell.

What he could tell, however, was that Aberforth had told the truth about the goat, as evidenced by the notable absence of straw by the stool he'd sat at last night, and the few orange-coloured stains on surrounding pieces which the goat had missed. Harry Vanished the rest of his vomit quickly.

"Do that for the rest of the straw," ordered Aberforth, "then replace it with a fresh batch. Thick covering, mind. The stuff's in the woodshed out back."

"My room?" asked Harry, raising an eyebrow.

"Oh. Right," said Aberforth, seemingly having forgotten already. "Upstairs. Last door. Bed linens need changed. You can do that first and ditch your stuff. Then the straw."

Harry brushed past Aberforth and quickly made his way to his new bedroom. He was more than a little suspicious about what condition it might be in, given that Aberforth's favoured client had been a vampire up until recently, but it turned out to be better than expected.

Which was to say, the room was a poky little shithole, but Harry hadn't doubted that for a moment. The floorboards creaked, and the air was rank. The bedlinens were filthy, leading Harry to cautiously avoid speculating on the previous occupant, and the smell emanating from them had flooded the room. One small window took the centre position on one of the walls, and it clearly hadn't been opened in some time.

"Scourgify," muttered Harry, tapping both panes, immediately letting in a flood of light compared to the dinginess that he'd been standing in previously. It blinded him for a moment, and in that moment, he managed to force the windows to open despite their rusted hinges, and stick his head out into the fresh air.

Harry took a deep breath, and relished the view from his window. He could see the spires of Hogwarts rising from the hill above. It was perfect.

His pleasure at seeing Hogwarts was temporarily diminished when he looked back into the room and saw the rank bedsheets.

"Does Incendio count as a household cleaning charm?" Harry wondered aloud. He inhaled a little too deeply, and tried not to gag. Yes it did, he decided. Yes it did.

Setting fire to your lodgings was not the best way to endear yourself to your new landlord and employer, but then again, neither was outright murder in front of his eyes the night before, not to mention vomiting over his floor. As the victim in question was a vampire and Aberforth was a barman, Harry was relatively sure that he'd earned more disdain for his juvenile liver than the killing.

Most wizards didn't consider vampires as much more than Dark creatures like werewolves; vicious predators to be avoided at all costs, and certainly closer to creature than human. Harry had met enough of each to know the truth; they were both just humans beset by a curse with similarly bloodthirsty effects. The only difference was the fact that werewolves were triggered by the full moon, and vampires by being hungry. Harry tried not to hold a grudge against how easily some of them gave into that hunger, or how high their appetites were, but he'd grown out of the naive boy he once was, and treated them with the same respect he would any wizards, which is to say, none at all, besides superficial politeness, until they'd fought together. The only difference in Harry's mind was who stood beside him and who stood against him. Whatever foul magic was at work in their blood was no business of his until they turned it on him.

Harry was glad to have opened the window, as somehow the conflagration on the bedspread had ignited the thick dust hanging in the air. Within seconds a spiralling vortex of flame was tearing through his room, and it was only a quick Banishing Charm directing the fire out through the window which prevented him from damaging the walls.

A Scourgify later, the room still looked miserable, so Harry gave in and Vanished everything. Transfiguring or Conjuring furniture wasn't out of the question, but Harry had more important chores to do, so he penned a quick note requesting delivery of a bed, desk, wardrobe, and chair, and left it by the window for Hedwig to find. When she showed up she'd find the letter and know what to do. That owl knew far more than she was ever letting on, Harry was sure, but he didn't want to be the first wizard to attempt to use legilimency on an owl. The repercussions sounded - bad - from what he understood of wizard-to-wizard legilimency, and nobody had ever bothered to write a textbook on invading the minds of birds. Or wizards, for that matter. That kind of knowledge could only be gained from practice and experience. Having a teacher could sometimes help, but it was really more of the same mentality that had let him shrug off the Imperius Curse which gave him insight into mind magic: the ability to match your will against another wizard and want to be yourself more than they wanted you to perform whatever trite task they had in mind.

A mild sticking charm kept the letter from flying off into the breeze, given that he'd left the windows open both for her to find her way to him and to freshen up the room.

In retrospect, Harry was lucky that Aberforth hadn't come to investigate the funnel of smoke emanating from his pub. He didn't dare presume that it'd gone unnoticed, but shrugged, deciding to deal with it when it came. His new boss might be a grouchy bastard, but given his discretion at Harry's actions last night - in addition to the usefulness of the location, and the fact that Aberforth had stepped up to deal with what may have been a pissed-off vampire at dawn, Harry was willing to put up with a lot worse.

The bales of straw proved trickier to deal with than Harry had first expected. A levitation charm had been enough to carry them out of the back shed, but the bale was simply too large to fit through the pub doors. It had been sealed together magically in order to prevent stray pieces from falling loose and causing a mess. Ironically enough, this was what was caused an even bigger mess.

Without thinking it through, Harry shoved the straw bale against the doorway, and cast a Finite Incantatem against it. The good old catch-em-all spell to end all spells. It didn't work on everything, of course. Nothing enchanted, or ensorcelled, or the lingering damage caused by spells which continued to progress, such as the hex which Malfoy had struck Hermione with, causing her teeth to swell abnormally. The Finite stopped them from growing further, but it took Madam Pomfrey's special attentions to make the harm inflicted go into a state of regression. Any adult wizard could have dealt with it - certainly Snape, who had been present, could have done so, but he'd chosen to send Hermione off to the Hospital Wing with a scathing insult instead of helping her.

The thought made Harry wince at the thought of a reunion with Snape as he would be at this point in time. Miserable, petty bastard that he was, regardless of all the good he had done. The adult part of Harry's mind could rationalise that it was school protocol to send such incidents to the nurse, so that they could be treated by a known professional and the ailments monitored under regulated conditions, but his adult and teenage self were in perfect synch when agreeing that adding mockery, as if to commend Draco's actions, was completely unacceptable behaviour.

For the sake of his current friends, and the future ally-of-necessity that Severus had become, Harry resolved to break the greasy bastard of his worst habits by the end of the year even if he had to hit him with a Cheering Charm every morning.

But Harry pulled himself out of his memories, a habit he had begun to fall into all too often since his return to the past. He wondered just how much the time travel was affecting him, and how much of it was just him brooding on past misdeeds.

No matter.

He looked back at where the straw bale had been, and groaned. At least, with his body blocking the doorway, he'd managed to mitigate the worst of the damage. His Finite had caused the straw to explode outwards, settling itself all over the main room of the pub. Only a small amount around the doorway had gotten outside, and despite the fact that every surface was covered in straw, at least he'd gotten the damn thing inside.

Harry flicked off a Scourgify and a Vanisher in quick conjunction, waving his wand in a wide arc to include the whole room. Molly Weasley, of all people, had once given him a marvellously informative lecture on how common household cleaning charms were an incredibly useful and underlooked variety of how intent influenced magic. The Hog's Head was grimy, and a careless Scourgify with enough force behind it could probably reduce it to an empty plot of land, but by focusing only on the straw, Harry was able to easily control the subject matter of his magic. By keeping his wand relatively level with the pieces of straw in particular which he wanted gone - those atop tables and the bar, Harry managed to make the whole process a lot easier.

There was a time when he would have tried to Vanish each individual piece of straw. Harry didn't dare think how long that would take, or how stupid he'd been in the past. His subconscious couldn't help but slip in a reminder that it was only a matter of time before he did something even more stupid, but that was just the way Harry had always been. Better to ask forgiveness than permission, and better to get away with it and avoid both altogether, Remus had once advised him. Harry had been startled to hear that coming from the most reserved and bookish of the Marauders, but had later learned that Remus wasn't as much inclined towards avoiding mischief as to taking it as seriously as his studies and doing it what he regarded as the proper way.

Harry growled. All this reminiscing was annoying, reminding him of people lost, people he'd soon be seeing, and a whole barrage of emotions that he'd deal with in his own time, thank you very much. It was interfering with his ability to throw straw on the ground, for Merlin's sake. Hopefully it'd clear up soon once his memories had assimilated properly.

Even with the majority of the more offensive, eye-level straw gone, Harry was still wary of using his wand to move it around again. Instead, he dug around in cupboards until he found a mangy old broom - the regular kind - and began to sweep it evenly across the floor.

There was a certain peace of mind to be found in the rhythmic movements of the broom, back and forth, over and over, and Harry actually enjoyed the task. While hardly tasking, there was nothing wrong with a bit of good old fashioned menial labour to keep your mind off things. It was almost a meditation.

Among the various posters tacked to the walls of the pub, one stood out against all others. For one thing, it wasn't covered under a layer of smoke debris and Merlin knows what else, and for another, it was a brightly lit rendition of two Quidditch teams standing proudly in their respective National Team robes. Ireland and Bulgaria. Harry gave it a fond smile, remembering the exhilaration of the colossal event. The festivities had been so jubilant that they even managed to stand out more in his mind than the miserly Death Eater stunt pulled afterwards.

Harry didn't suppose he'd get much of a chance to attend this year, what with working at The Hog's Head. He was a little disappointed, but not too much. He'd already seen the match, after all. Although the temptation to skim a tidy profit off his future knowledge did pop into his head as soon as he'd seen the poster.

He dismissed it with a rueful grin, and got back to sweeping the floor. He wasn't sure how long he'd been at it when Aberforth returned.

"I'd heard you were a dab hand with a broom, Potter, but this isn't quite what I'd imagined," he said in what Harry was sure was an amused tone, underneath the surly veneer.

Harry didn't reply, choosing instead to finish off the final corner and place the broom back into its closet. He didn't want to antagonise Aberforth too much. The man was a dick, but Harry had dealt with far worse, and could easily ignore a little needling here and there. Besides, he had a bigger concern on his mind. Obviously he looked like Harry Potter. Obviously he looked like James Potter. And equally obviously, Aberforth knew them both by reputation, if not by sight.

"Not many wizards take the time to do things properly these days," Aberforth added, speculatively. "Wave a wand and everything's spotless. You brats never seem to grow up knowing the value of putting time and effort into anything when it's just a flick away."

Harry tactfully didn't comment on the far-from spotless appearance of Aberforth's pub, both out of a desire to avoid picking an argument, and because it seemed like the old goat was on the verge of saying something else. But he took his damn time about it, fiddling behind the bar to gather the same unlabelled bottle of firewhiskey Harry had been drinking last night, along with, to Harry's surprise, two shot glasses.

The old man grabbed him by the shoulder and shoved him unceremoniously into the nearest chair, promptly dropping in the one beside him. Harry was eerily reminded of the way that Dumbledore had steered him around for half his life, albeit in a far cruder manner. Maybe it ran in the family. Or maybe old men were just too used to getting their own way to understand the possibility of disagreement. Sitting next to Aberforth, Harry felt he was missing something significant. They were not looking at each other as if for a conversation, but sitting side by side. There was something in there, but Harry couldn't quite grasp what.

His train of thought was momentarily distracted by Aberforth pouring the drinks. His employer pushed one towards him roughly. Harry had to reach out quickly to grab it before it slid off the edge of the table.

"What's this for?" asked Harry, cocking an eyebrow. After gaining employment in a pub, he hadn't expected to be told to keep his hands off the merchandise, but neither had he expected to be given a drink after vomiting on the floor not four feet away yesterday.

"Perk of the job, working in a bar. My bar, my drink. You get yours because you did your job properly," said Aberforth.

"I won't turn down a drink," agreed Harry, having already raised his to toast Aberforth. "But sweeping a room hardly merits celebration."

Aberforth snorted.

"You'd be surprised. Magic everywhere, and when it goes wrong, what do they do? More magic. Mess everywhere. You just swept it up with a broom. Which is what I keep the damn things for. Can you imagine me flying? Me?" he exclaimed ludicrously.

"I grew up with Muggles," offered Harry, not volunteering any more than that. Aberforth gave him a brief but piercing gaze.

"So I heard. Dare say it did you some good, at that. Wizards are too caught up in their wands to pay attention to the way the world works. Albus was in here every summer since you showed up, bitching about how he hated to send you there. Egotistical bastard. Not like it was his choice."

Harry waited patiently for the man to continue, but Aberforth seemed perfectly happy to remain in silence for almost too long.

"You scared of that after your show last night?" he sneered, tilting his head towards Harry's full glass. Aberforth was already filling his second.

"No," retorted Harry, a little defensive over his humiliation. Aberforth took it to be the typical shame of boys who'd snuck too deep into the liquor cabinet, and laughed in return. But the laugh wasn't nasty, even if it was condescending as hell.

"Got to learn to drink like a wizard if you're working for me, boy, no matter how good you are with a broom - air or floor, take your pick."

Harry prickled at the comment, but did his best not to show, and instead gestured with his shot glass, which was still raised expectantly.

"No," he snapped, a little too suddenly, and then immediately moderated his tone. "I was just wondering what to drink to."

Aberforth gave his derisive laugh again, but Harry must have been getting used to it, because it was beginning to seem far less sour and more just the way that the old man was. Perhaps a deliberate opposite to the other Dumbledore's lofty airs of genial benevolence.

"We don't do fancy toasts in here, boy. But I'll give you an exception this one time, same reason I'm giving you the drink. Reward for a job done properly."

Harry stared incredulously at the man for a moment, but then thought fuck this, and knocked back the alcohol.

"For sweeping your floor?" he asked, the burn of firewhiskey helping to add a little more snap to his retort.

"No, you little shit, for the vampire."

"I thought you weren't too happy about losing such a high paying customer," said Harry, torn between confusion and anger, and settling for typical teenage belligerence.

"I wasn't. Wasn't too happy about having a vampire hanging around so long, either. You cost me some money, are going to pay me back for the lost silver with whatever work needs doing around here I can't handle myself, and did me a favour besides."

Harry mused that over for a bit. He'd known Aberforth had come out on top in that bargain, but now he was speculating just how much it had been by. Maybe he'd have to call in that favour one day and find out, but in the meantime, he just shrugged.

"Didn't fancy dying that night," Harry said, matter-of-factly.

"Sure. Plenty of wizards can kill a vampire. Though not many when passed out blind drunk and at night. That was quick thinking. Creative, too."

"I got lucky," said Harry, entirely honestly. "Or unlucky. Or one after the other my whole damn life."

"That's life, Potter. Don't bitch about it," snapped Aberforth, although there was no real malice in his voice. He was already pouring them another glass.

"But that's not the point. You came back in the morning and dealt with its corpse. Made sure it wasn't going to wake up half-dead, delirious, and wrapped around the nearest throat it could find. Like I said about the brooms. Doing things properly. It's what matters," Aberforth said with emphasis, finishing what must have been at least his fifth shot.

Harry noted with some relief, given the time of day, that Aberforth was stoppering the bottle. He savoured his final swallow of firewhiskey with a bit more pleasure than the others, having finally begun to regain his old acquired taste for it.

"So that's why you gave me the job?" Harry mused. Aberforth chuckled beside him, and then used Harry's shoulder to push himself up off the chair, nearly sending Harry careening into the floor. He was deceptively strong for his age. Must be a wizard thing, Harry speculated.

"Partly. Three reasons. I was thinking of hiring someone to take on some of the work. You made a twat of yourself then dealt with it appropriately. Useful trait in new staff. And life." Aberforth snorted, yet again. "But mostly I thought it would piss the hell out of Albus if I found out what the fuck you're up to all of a sudden before he did."

Harry stared at the man, incredulous once again. They may be brothers, but he was well aware of the gulf in social and magical ability between Albus and Aberforth.

"So how do you think you can solve a magical mystery sooner than Albus Dumbledore?"

"Honestly?" asked Aberforth, deadly serious. Harry met him eye for eye. "The one solution he'd never consider," said Aberforth. "Albus has always been brilliant with his plans and machinations and politicking double-speak that doesn't mean shit. I'm sure he'd catch you in the act as usual, and you'd confess everything."

"But?" asked Harry.

"I was just going to ask."

The two men stared at each other for a moment, before breaking into uproarious laughter.

 _As always, criticisms and questions are welcomed through the easy review system, and I'll do my best to reply to all of you. If any of you have asked an explicit question and not recieved an answer, contact me by review or PM reminding me of the question, and I'll get back to you asap. Knowing that there are others out there who are interested in this story are a huge part of what keeps it alive. Thank you for reading. I hope you've enjoyed our journey so far. Things are only going to get more involved from here on out._


	4. Chapter 4

_A/N: A new job has messed with my writing schedule, but I'm going to do my best to get at least one of similar length out every week. Once I get the hang of things, it might speed up a bit, but for now I'll just do my best to keep them coming every week. I'd love to hear any thoughts and opinions in reviews or PMs. Feedback is the lifeblood of the author, after all._

"Potter!" shouted Aberforth. It was the fifth time since about seven in the morning, and the intervals grew shorter with every bellow.

Harry groaned, and rolled over on his new bed. It was brand new. Harry had never slept in a brand new bed before. Surely it needed worn-in, to get accustomed to its job, so Harry had endeavoured to spend as much time as possible asleep in it. He had promised not to hex his employer, so instead he Conjured a teddy bear and tore it to shreds with a growled Bombarda.

Soft white stuffing floating all around was actually a rather soothing image to wake up to. It cheered Harry up about half as much as exploding a teddy bear had, so he finally relented to Aberforth's demanding shouts, and staggered downstairs.

"What did I ask you last night, Aberforth?" Harry asked, in an extremely aggravated voice.

Aberforth glared at him from the table he was sitting at, and slapped his copy of The Daily Prophet onto its sticky surface.

"You asked me if I was fucking my goat," Aberforth snarled. "Four times. In front of customers."

"What?" asked Harry, bewildered. The previous night was a bit hazy. He'd been staying at The Hog's Head for about a week now, and was regularly subjected to what Aberforth called learning on the job and Harry called attempting to best his patrons in the calculation of their chance and alcohol consumption. In Aberforth's eyes, the barman must be as drunk as the average man in the pub in order to properly understand his clientele and cater to their demands, yet also capable of handling six customers' orders at once, work out their change correctly, and beat the snot out of them if they bickered too much about it.

Old Harry could have handled it. Last night, Harry could not, and this morning, Harry couldn't recall ever accusing Aberforth of doing anything to poor Betsie.

"Alright, then," spat Aberforth. "Keep your semantics. You asked me three times, shortchanged Mundungus Fletcher by half a galleon and threatened to bar him for life if he argued, had another drink, and then shouted that I was a LIAR and demanded that I confess in front of the Hog's Head Wizengamot Division to be tried for my crimes."

Despite the volume and anger of Aberforth's little tirade, Harry could see him struggling to stop the edges of his lips quirking up into a smile. Aberforth tried to pick up his copy of the Daily Prophet. It resisted for a moment, then gave way with a ripping sound. Part of the back page was stuck to the table. Harry wished for the hundredth time that Aberforth would let him charm the tables to be moisture-repellant, but the two of them were matched in stubbornness.

"I'd fire you on the spot," mused Aberforth, his pretence at anger gone, and replaced with an odd expression. "But I've never seen anyone do business with Fletcher and come away with more money than when they started. The little bastard gets mugged on purpose so he can pick the muggers pockets, did you know?"

Harry was slightly concerned by how close Aberforth's tones were to respect, because he knew that it wasn't directed at Harry bettering a crook, but rather awe at the depth of Fletcher's petty criminal activities.

Suddenly, Aberforth turned his attention fully back to Harry, curiosity in his eyes.

"Anyway, Potter," began Aberforth.

"Anyway, Aberforth," interrupted Harry. "You still haven't answered my question. What ELSE did I ask you last night?"

"What? Oh. Don't call you Potter. Have it your way, boy."

"No, you goat-fucking cadaver! To call me Harry," said Harry insistently as he walked across the room, attempting to make his way to the kitchen in the back room. Since he was awake, he figured that he may as well make some breakfast.

"Don't be absurd. We're not friends. I'm a century older than you. It'd be ridiculous," replied Aberforth, trying in vain to peel the last page of The Prophet off his table.

Harry snorted.

"If you're not my friend, what are you?" he asked. Despite the constant bickering and abuse thrown both ways, an easy if temperamental camaraderie had grown between the two men. Harry imagined that it stemmed from the fact that neither of them gave a shit about petty insults, and that each of them gave as good as they got.

Aberforth shrugged.

"Your role model," he answered.

"What?" exclaimed Harry, in a burst of shocked laughter.

"I'm not being your fucking hero, Potter. Role model is as high as I'm willing to go. No more bargaining," said Aberforth flatly, turning back to his paper.

Harry made a muted noise of disbelief, and elected not to reply, carrying on towards the kitchen, where the promise of bacon and eggs waited.

Aberforth grabbed his arm as he passed. Harry groaned. The old bastard had an iron grip, if iron could be a bit wrinkly. A corrugated iron grip, perhaps. Which he wasn't letting go.

"What now, Dumbledore?" asked Harry sarcastically.

Aberforth actually punched him in the gut, although not very hard.

"I told you never to fucking call me that again," he snapped.

"Can you spell hypocrite? I bet Dumbledore can," taunted Harry.

"Fuck off, Potter. Know why I've been shouting myself hoarse trying to get your lazy arse down here?"

"Because you're a bastard?" asked Harry, much more interested in his bacon than whatever tedious chore that Aberforth couldn't be bothered to do might be.

"No. This," said Aberforth, pointing to an article in The Daily Prophet.

Harry caught a glimpse of the headline: BOY-WHO-LIVED TAKEN TO MUNGO'S ISOLATION WARD AFTER TIME-TURNER TRAGEDY. He read through the first few paragraphs of Trelawney-style predictions of Harry's impending death or mutilation, interspersed with Skeeter's typical accusations of Ministry incompetence and negligence, and rather enjoyed a Skeeter article for the first time in his life before noticing a terrible crime.

"Hey, wait a minute!" he cried, so visibly distraught that even Aberforth looked surprised at his reaction. "Page four? Page fucking four? I should be the cover story!" Aberforth laughed mockingly, and shook his head.

"You're almost as much of an egotistical twat as your father, Potter," said Aberforth.

"Thank you," replied Harry, distractedly but sincerely.

"But we both know that this story is a crock of shit. Even if I hadn't noticed the author's tagline, this is not a hospital, despite the medicinal properties of many of the drinks we serve."

Harry didn't answer. Aberforth didn't let go of his arm. In fact, he squeezed it until Harry winced.

"Okay, fine, I'm a time traveller. I came back from the year -" Harry stopped speaking suddenly as Aberforth clapped a hand over his mouth.

"I don't want to know anything about the future. Since you're here, it's gone now, and we've got the present to deal with instead. But what's with the story? Fucked up the spell and got, I don't know, time-splinched?" asked Aberforth, hazarding a guess and finally releasing his grip.

Harry shook his head.

"Got an anonymous tip sent to The Prophet as a cover story."

"Not everyone will buy that heap of lies, boy," said Aberforth, in a warning tone. Harry grinned, because that was all part of his plan. Plant the seed of doubt, let the rumour mills churn out whatever they like, but end up with the result that - somehow - it's possible that Harry Potter can step over an Age Line.

"Oh, I know. But most people are dumb as rocks and will believe anything just because it's in their newspaper. And it's a convenient excuse for what I'm going to do. I need to be overage for the next step of my plan."

"Learn how to drink like a wizard?" asked Aberforth.

Harry considered a few sharp retorts, but bit them back in favour of the truth.

"I'm going to win the Triwizard Tournament."

"Huh," said Aberforth, eloquently.

Harry took advantage of Aberforth's loss of words to slip past. Soon he had a pan filled high with eggs and bacon, and the scent was wafting delightfully through the air. Harry wondered whether it was the smell of bacon or the newspaper article which had caused Aberforth to follow him into the kitchen.

"Hungry?" asked Harry. "I know you usually stick to a liquid diet, but bacon is good for hangovers. Hell, food in general is good for hangovers."

"I don't have a hangover, Potter," grumbled Aberforth.

"I do. And if you're in a good mood after eating a decent breakfast you're less likely to make my head throb any worse than it already is," said Harry.

"Alright, then, I'll make you a deal. You make breakfast and milk Betsie when you've eaten, and I'll let you explain to me what the fuck you're planning to do now that you're back in the present."

Harry turned the bacon, careful not to jostle the eggs and split the runny yolk open.

"I do chores in exchange for telling you my secrets? That's hardly a fair deal," he said.

"A burden shared is a burden halved. I'd be doing you a favour by listening, so spill the beans already."

Harry paused, remembering what Aberforth had said only minutes ago.

"Wait, I thought you didn't want to know about the future, about why I travelled back in time?"

"I don't. Your old future is gone. I'm guessing Voldemort, and I want nothing to do with that bastard except the ability to stay out of his way. But I want to know what you're doing now that you're back here."

"Pass me the plates," said Harry. Aberforth grumbled, but dug around in a cupboard to find some nearly clean cutlery and crockery. Harry loaded them up with food, and took them to the table in the front room where Aberforth had been sitting previously.

The two men sat and chewed in silence for a while, with Aberforth giving Harry demanding looks between bites, until at last Harry began to speak.

"You're right. Voldemort. He came back about a year from now. I'll give you the short version - we managed to kill him, but it didn't work. He kept coming back."

"Albus has been harping on about how he wasn't really dead for years, but what do you mean, kept coming back?"

Harry gave Aberforth a mischievous grin.

"You wanted to know this before Albus, right? Be the one with all the answers while he flounders in the dark for the first time in your life?"

"Damn straight," muttered Aberforth, setting his fork down beside his plate cleaned of everything but grease. He laid it on the floor beside his chair, and Betsie the goat came over to lick it clean.

"He didn't die properly because he's created Horcruxes - soul anchors. I'm sure you can figure out what they do from that description."

Aberforth grunted, and scratched irritably at a pockmark on his cheek.

"Body gone, left as a ghost?"

"Wraith, actually," said Harry, "And it's a bit more complicated than that. He's not an echo of a person, like true ghosts, but a splinter of one, floating around in the ether. Well, Albania, actually, but that's not important."

"So you came back to destroy these Horcruxes before he managed to resurrect himself?" asked Aberforth.

Harry shrugged.

"I'll do that along the way, but that's not so important. His soul has been so damaged by creating these Horcruxes that he can't exist in the state of flux that a wraith inhabits after performing the ritual which resurrected him. It didn't just bring him back to life, it altered him on a fundamental level. Every time we managed to kill him, the ritual would reactivate, and he'd reform. It took him thirteen years to make himself a new body the first time. The second time, it was less than a year. He got quicker every time, until he was so adept at his own resurrection that he'd willing sacrifice himself as a distraction to let his minions do their dirty work."

"Doesn't sound like him. He'd never put himself in danger when he could send Death Eaters in his place," said Aberforth.

"That's the thing. There was a moment when he realised what was happening, that he truly had beaten mortality. And he used that. We'd create elaborate traps to kill him, and he'd walk into them deliberately, just so his followers could pick off the members of the Order who had tried to kill him. His own body was a renewable fucking resource."

"Too much future," grumbled Aberforth. "Get back to the present."

"Right. Well, the Horcruxes are what damaged his soul and caused the ritual to become permanent, instead of a one-time deal. I'll need to destroy them at some point, sure, but mostly I'm here to botch his ritual."

"Stop him from coming back?" asked Aberforth.

"No," said Harry. "It might take him another thirteen years, but he'd find another way. I need to let it happen, but under my terms. Strip him of his ability to reincarnate at will. Then I can deal with him the same way you deal with any other Dark Lord."

"Long, bloody war?" asked Aberforth sarcastically.

"Probably," said Harry. Aberforth sat back in silence, obviously not expecting that response.

"Then what's the point of you even coming back?"

"To make him mortal. There have been Dark Lords before, all striving for immortality. Voldemort succeeded because he delved too deep into ancient magic and damaged himself enough to damage the ritual. Unfortunately the changes only made him stronger. My blood, his father's bone, and his servant's flesh made him permanent. Because of this."

Harry raised a finger and tapped his scar.

Aberforth squinted.

"Looks a lot more faded than when I last saw a picture of it," he said, speculatively. He eyed Harry after speaking, expecting an explanation.

"When Voldemort tried to kill me, he accidentally made me into a horcrux. So when he used my blood in the ritual, he added a fourth component. His own soul anchor. His own means of resurrection."

"Fuck," said Aberforth, astutely.

"Yeah."

"Bone, blood, and flesh to build a body were all he planned for. But by accident he added the tool of his own resurrection to that body, granting it that power. His soul was twisted enough that the ritual worked. He was so far changed that his soul hardly recognised the horcrux in my blood as a horcrux. Rather than rejoining his soul, it joined the ritual of rebirth and entered his flesh, making Voldemort his own living, eternal Horcrux."

"So that's why your scar faded? The horcrux isn't there any longer?"

"It didn't get removed in the ritual, if that's what you're asking," said Harry. "It was just its presence which changed things. It was as much symbolic as anything else. I got rid of it later."

"So that's why it looks like that now?" asked Aberforth.

Harry nodded in assent, idly tracing the lightning bolt on his forehead with a fingertip. It had faded from red into a muted silver colour, and was much harder to see than before, which suited Harry fine. People tended to stare at his forehead less when there wasn't anything to see.

"And Albus doesn't know any of this?" demanded Aberforth suddenly, snapping Harry out of his reverie.

"Uh - no. Not much. Only that I'm from the future and will be entering the Triwizard Tournament to stop Voldemort's plans. Although I think he's been speculating about Horcruxes for a while, he doesn't know the details."

"Best that way. He'd meddle and ruin whatever you've got planned." Aberforth started beaming, all of a sudden. The expression looked out of place on the usually-surly barman. "Hah! And Albus has to take the back bench and let some snot nosed brat run the show this time. I'll bet that's tearing him up inside!" he exclaimed in tones of glee.

Harry gave him a quizzical impression.

"I get the feeling that you don't like your brother very much."

"He's my brother," said Aberforth, as if that explained everything.

Being an only child, Harry didn't understand. Aberforth rolled his eyes and explained.

"I despise him some days. For what he's done. For the ridiculous airs he puts on. For thinking that he's better than the rest of us. But he's my brother." Aberforth sighed, and looked at the tabletop for a long, long time, a sour look crossing his face, and removing all traces of his previous mirth.

"For Ariana," said Harry under his breath.

Aberforth's fists suddenly tightened into a white-knuckled grip, and he stood up so quickly that his chair fell to the ground. For a moment Harry thought that he was going to strike him, and reached for his wand, but then Aberforth sighed, and opened his hands, looking older than Harry had ever seen him.

"He told you?" asked Aberforth, his voice hoarse.

"He told me that you, he, and Grindelwald all duelled. Ariana got caught in the crossfire. Nobody knows whose spell it was, but he blames himself. It haunts him every day."

Aberforth gave a bitter laugh.

"Oh, yes, I hated him for that. In the chaos it was impossible to tell who was who, and which spell came from which wand."

A dark look washed over Aberforth's features.

"I told him that I didn't see whose spell killed her either. Because he's my brother."

A cold knot formed in Harry's stomach as he began to realise what Aberforth was saying.

"I've never told anybody this, but I know what my brother's like. He likes to be in control, above it all. Maybe the detachment of sitting high in his tower makes it easier for him to shuffle around the lives of us, down here. But he's a good person under it all, even though he came so close to the edge. He's a good man - by choice. And that's what makes all the difference."

Harry leaned closer, worried, but Aberforth was still speaking, his voice dropping with every word. It was almost as if he wanted to say the words to Harry, but could not bear to hear them himself.

"It was Albus who killed her," Aberforth finally said, in a chilling tone.

Aberforth stood silently, staring into space. Harry didn't dare interrupt the silence; didn't know what he could possibly say to that. After some time had passed, Aberforth righted his chair and sat down, dropping his head in his hands.

"I never told him. He's my brother. And for all that I hate him for it, it was an accident. I saw how much guilt the possibility brought down on him. Knowing the truth would have destroyed him back then. So much time has passed, but even now, it eats at him. His darkest shame."

Aberforth looked up at Harry sharply.

"Nobody knows this. But if Albus goes too far - if he tries to stop you, and you have no choice but to force your will on a man who never backs down…" Aberforth trailed off, looking miserable.

"He doesn't fear death or threats. He's too powerful to be swayed by force, and too convinced of his own brilliance to listen to the logic of others when he's already made up his mind," he said. Aberforth gritted his teeth and glared, biting out every word. "Albus killed Ariana. It's the only weapon you have against him if he decides to stand in your way."

"Why would you tell me this? Harry asked, his voice hoarse. He'd known the man a scant handful of days, and already he'd revealed his greatest secret.

"You might need to use it against him, one day. If he decides to interfere with whatever your machinations are. For the greater good," Aberforth said, spitting out the last three words as if they were poisonous. "I may have come to terms with what happened, but sometimes Albus makes mistakes. They're rare. But they're big."

"I won't tell him unless there's no choice," said Harry in a muted voice, shocked at the revelation. He'd always known it was a possibility, but hearing it outright stunned him to the core. And he couldn't believe that Aberforth was trusting him with this knowledge.

"Hnf," grunted Aberforth. "Tell him without good reason and I'll kill you myself."

Harry could hear that Aberforth was completely serious with that statement, and frowned. The cold in his stomach turned to ice. For all the times he'd argued with Dumbledore, telling him something like that would hurt him so deeply that Harry knew he would hate himself for revealing that horrible, long-buried truth. He let out a long sigh. This was too much to take in.

"Sometimes your closest allies can be the most dangerous foes," he muttered to himself, sinking back in his chair.

"Enough," snapped Aberforth. "Don't talk about this with me again. I'll protect you from my brother, but hurt him without cause and I'll have your head over my mantelpiece. Go milk Betsie."

Aberforth stormed away, leaving Harry feeling more confused than ever. He'd feared that Dumbledore would get in the way of his plans, but had never thought that he might have to bring up so old and deep a wound to stop him from interfering. Harry sighed. Aberforth was right. Dumbledore meant well, but was too used to doing things his way, and only his way. He'd lived too long with nobody willing and able to stand against him as an equal.

By greeting Dumbledore as an old friend, Harry had hoped to instill a deeper level of trust from the onset, pretending that he'd been closer to Albus than they had actually been. His plan had been to reinvigorate a close friendship from the future that was entirely fictional, but he'd always known it could fall apart at any moment if Dumbledore saw through it. Or simply not be enough, if Dumbledore was too convinced in his own actions to give Harry free reign.

"Fuck," said Harry, and slammed his head into the table. This was worse than the hangover. At least in Aberforth he had found perhaps the only other person who understood Dumbledore properly: a good man who makes terrible mistakes.

Determined not to think about it for the time being, Harry chose to distract himself with the chores required to keep The Hog's Head in shape, beginning with the one Aberforth had just given him.

"C'mon Betsie," he said.

The goat followed him without any further coaxing to the woodshed, where a stool and milking pail were kept. Harry narrowed his eyes at Betsie, remembering that Aberforth had once been in trouble with the law for performing unusual Charms on a goat. The animal did seem uncommonly smart and well-behaved for a goat.

Harry shrugged, and got down to work. Milking a goat wasn't the most interesting job in the world, but at least it was a distraction. He didn't want to think about any of the Dumbledore family for a good while.

It was worrying indeed when Voldemort was a more pleasant thing to think about than Dumbledore.

As he'd said to Aberforth, Harry did intend to destroy the Horcruxes. They were a low priority compared to interfering with the ritual, but would need to be dealt with at some point. The scar and diary were already dead. Nagini had yet to be created. Rowena's Diadem could be dealt with once Harry was inside Hogwarts, and he'd need to get in touch with Sirius to get to Salazar's Locket. The Cup of Helga Hufflepuff would be the most difficult to reach, and Harry was worried about how to deal with the Withering Curse on Marvolo Gaunt's ring.

Harry grimaced.

Perhaps it would be best to destroy the Horcruxes before the ritual happened, just in case. That way he wouldn't risk Voldemort moving them to more secure locations.

The problem was that he wanted to salvage the artifacts without destroying them. He thought he had an idea for doing that, but it would be difficult and time-consuming to try experimenting on Voldemort's Horcruxes directly, without knowing for sure he had a method that would work.

Harry had been thinking about this since before travelling back into the past. He'd even considered making a Horcrux himself so he could experiment on safe ways to extract the soul fragment, but the idea was repulsive. A practice Horcrux would be ideal, but Harry shuddered at the thought of creating one, though he knew the process inside out.

But surely Voldemort wasn't the only one out there afraid of death, and willing to commit murder for immortality. It would be a dangerous road to travel, but perhaps there would be a way for Harry to get his hands on a practice Horcrux, after all. It was an ugly thought, but Harry had done terrible things before in the war against Voldemort.

Harry grimaced. He'd deal with it later. There was time. And if he had to destroy the Founders' Artifacts, then that was just how it would have to be. Better that than Voldemort's spirit roaming free, even in his weakened state.

Betsie bleated, and Harry was shaken loose from his thoughts. The pail was almost full. He picked it up, and began to carry it towards the icebox in the kitchen. He realised he'd forgotten to open the door for Betsie, and took a step back towards the woodshed to free her, when she appeared in front of him with a pop. Harry took a step back in surprise, drawing his wand. Betsie just bleated at him again in an annoyed tone, and walked off.

There was definitely something off with that goat. And that pop had sounded very familiar, but Harry couldn't think when he'd heard it before.

He ditched the pail into the icebox, and set about his daily chores. It didn't take long, even without the aid of magic. Although Harry could do it in a fraction of the time with his wand, he found himself agreeing with Aberforth. There was a simple pleasure in doing things yourself. Even cleaning.

Weeks later, Harry woke up from a lovely, relaxing, and altogether dreamless sleep, only to turn to face the calendar pinned to his wall. Today's date was circled in red. August the twenty-third. Harry's good mood immediately fell away.

This was supposed to be the night he woke up in pain before dawn, having dreamt of Voldemort. The first touch of their bond through the Horcrux. Harry rubbed his scar absently, and sighed. Well, that proved it was definitely gone, but for some reason he'd expected the dream anyway.

He lay back in bed, deciding to sleep some more, when something impacted against his window with a soft thump.

Harry pushed open the shutters, and then the window, seeing nothing outside. Suddenly a tiny owl darted in, chirping excitedly. Hedwig hooted disdainfully at the smaller owl, and turned back to cleaning her feathers. Harry smiled, recognising the pygmy owl.

 _Harry — DAD GOT THE TICKETS — Ireland versus Bulgaria, Monday night. Mum's writing to the Muggles to ask you to stay. They might already have the letter, I don't know how fast Muggle post is. Thought I'd send this with Pig anyway._

 _We're coming for you whether the Muggles like it or not, you can't miss the World Cup, only Mum and Dad reckon it's better if we pretend to ask their permission first. If they say yes, send Pig back with your answer pronto, and we'll come and get you at five o'clock on Sunday. If they say no, send Pig back pronto and we'll come and get you at five o'clock on Sunday anyway._

 _Hermione's arriving this afternoon. Percy's started work — the Department of International Magical Cooperation. Don't mention anything about Abroad while you're here unless you want the pants bored off you._

 _See you soon —_

 _Ron_

Harry laughed aloud, and stole an owl treat from Hedwig's tray to give to Ginny's tiny, hyperactive owl. He could fondly remember the letter sent by Molly Weasley, covered in a hundred stamps, asking the Dursleys' permission to take him to the cup. He still hadn't decided whether he was going to attend the match or not, but the Weasleys' invitation was still a welcome sight.

He took the letter with him and went to find Aberforth. When he couldn't find the old codger at first, Harry assumed he was still in bed, but eventually he found the older man chopping firewood out by the back door.

"Didn't you say you're closing the pub for a few nights?" asked Harry.

"Right," grunted Aberforth between swings. "Half the wizarding world is off to the Quidditch World Cup."

"I'd wager everyone who couldn't get a ticket would be eager to drown their sorrows on that night and buy enough to make up for the missing customers," teased Harry.

"Right," agreed Aberforth.

"So why're you closing the pub?"

"Isn't it obvious? I'm going," said Aberforth, dropping his wood-axe on the floor and turning to watch Harry. "What's your point? If you're after tickets, you know Fletcher's got his grubby little hands on some he's looking to sell. He's been flogging them in here all week."

That struck Harry as odd. Aberforth didn't seem like the festive type.

"Who're you going with?" he asked.

"Albus," replied Aberforth. "He gets sent a dozen invitations every time there's a cup. Politicians jostling to get some time to whisper in his ear. He always brings me along to get drunk and belligerent when they become too overbearing, so we can actually have a good time."

After the revelation of Ariana's death a fortnight ago, Harry was startled by the prospect of the two brothers going to a Quidditch match together, but he supposed it was ancient history for them, even if the old wound had never healed. Albus even came down to the pub for a drink once or twice a week, so Harry supposed that they must get along to some extent these days. Although he had noticed that Albus' visits had always been conveniently timed to match Harry's nights off. Harry suspected Aberforth was trying to keep him out of Dumbledore's clutches and questions, which was unnecessary, and yet Harry found it oddly endearing. He was growing to like the crotchety bastard, and said bastard seemed to be looking out for him, too.

"Take a look at this," said Harry, showing Aberforth Ron's letter.

"You going?" he asked, eloquent as always.

"I haven't decided yet. Already seen the match, but it was a good one. And then…" Harry trailed off.

Aberforth caught his hesitation.

"Something happened there?"

"Yeah. And I can't stop it, or it'd set things off track. I need the Death Eater who causes the trouble to think he's got away with it - at least for a little while," said Harry, frustrated.

As much as he'd like to capture Barty Crouch Junior at the Quidditch cup, he knew that he needed to let events pan out as before until the right moment. He didn't have long to wait, but he needed Crouch to be in Hogwarts so Voldemort would think his plan was progressing as hoped.

"Deal with it," said Aberforth callously."

"What?" exclaimed Harry.

"Sometimes you just have to let things go. Whatever's happening, it doesn't ruin the match, right? You said you'd seen it," said Aberforth, puzzling out Harry's words.

"That's right. It happened afterwards, when the winners were celebrating," said Harry.

"The winners? Come on Potter, give me the details. Who won?" demanded Aberforth.

Harry gave him a curious expression.

"Wouldn't knowing in advance spoil the match?" he asked.

"Not if you've got a heavy wager ready to be placed. You travelled back in time for a reason, Potter, and if it wasn't my financial gain, I don't know what it was. All you've done so far is help earn me money by keeping the pub working harder than before, serving customers quicker, and cheating Fletcher out of his change time and time again."

Harry grinned. After the drunken night he couldn't quite remember, he'd made a bit of a game out of giving Fletcher the wrong change on purpose every time he served the sleazy little crook. To balance things out, he occasionally gave him too much money, so Fletcher kept coming back in the hopes that he'd come out on top in the end. Unfortunately for him, Harry and Aberforth were keeping track carefully of just how much they were robbing from the weaselly little man. It was the same problem every gambler faced; they always come back in the hopes that this time the cards will be in their favour.

"What's in it for me?" asked Harry.

"Split the winnings?" offered Aberforth. Harry shook his head.

"That goes without saying. Sweeten the deal."

"Tell you what. I'll get Albus home straight after the match for a family reunion nightcap. That way he won't interfere with whatever's going to happen. And thirty percent of the winnings," Aberforth said, trying to haggle.

Harry smiled, knowing that Dumbledore hadn't been involved the first time around, but he didn't object to a little extra gold. And knowing the odds, there'd be a significant sum coming their way after the match.

"How much are you betting?" he asked.

"Hundred Galleons," said Aberforth.

"Double it," said Harry. "All out of your pocket, mind you. I've got great odds for you."

"Spill," demanded Aberforth.

"Ireland beats Bulgaria, 170 to 160. But Bulgaria catches the Snitch."

Aberforth whistled.

"I'll get some decent gold out of a bet that specific."

"Whoever you gamble with, make sure it's not Ludo Bagman," Harry warned, remembering Fred and George's extensive attempts at getting their money back.

Aberforth snorted.

"I'm not an idiot. Everyone knows he's balls-deep in debts to the goblins and they're just waiting for the opportunity to eviscerate him. It's the goblins I'm going to put my wager with."

Harry cocked his head in confusion.

"I thought goblins were renowned for being miserly with gold. Not the sort of creature you want to be asking for your huge payoff from."

Aberforth gave a dark chuckle.

"Nah, goblins aren't miserly. They're sticklers for rules. Their rules, not wizard ones. Sometimes wizards and goblins disagree on what belongs to who. They get violent about it. Rebellions. Sabotage. Strongly-worded letters. It's just that they don't give a damn for wizard rules, but on the occasion of debts with Gringotts, it's goblin rules which apply."

"What's the difference?" asked Harry.

"You owe a wizard some money, maybe he hexes you, maybe he brings in the DMLE and you get forced to pay up, one way or another. Sometimes fines, sometimes a holiday in Azkaban. The goblins don't do fines. Fail to pay them what you owe, and they'll bloody eviscerate you. Bloodily," cackled Aberforth.

"And the Ministry lets them do it?" asked Harry.

"Yup," said Aberforth. "Outcome of the last rebellion. Goblin laws apply to goblin debts. And believe me, goblins are always looking for an opportunity to eviscerate a wizard. So they'll take wagers, and usually the house wins. Like all gambling. But every now and then somebody wins big, and they let it slide, in the hopes that he - or another wizard - will come back in with high hopes and empty pockets. And when the term of repayment is over, and a wizard can't pay up…"

Aberforth picked up the wood-axe and pressed it to Harry's belly, running it slowly across his stomach.

"Vicious little bastards. They like their gold, but they like killing more. They opened the Quidditch gambling office after we banned bloodsports."

Harry felt queasy at hearing this.

"Ireland 170, Bulgaria 160," he reminded Aberforth, unwilling to be accessory to homicide-by-Quidditch-bet.

"And Bulgaria catches the Snitch. I got it," said Aberforth.

Harry rubbed his stomach uneasily.

"So," said Aberforth conversationally, apparently completely at ease with the possibility of goblin swords in his belly, "Are you going to go?"

Harry thought for a moment. It'd be odd to see his friends again, some younger, some alive once again. In all honesty, he was nervous about meeting them again.

"I haven't decided."

"It's not far off. Decide quick," grunted Aberforth, swinging the wood-axe back onto a log, splitting it into kindling for the fire.

That reminded Harry. The Weasleys' thought he was still at Privet Drive. Whether he replied or not, they'd be Flooing into the Dursleys' bricked-off fireplace if he didn't tell them otherwise. He smiled, remembering the madness of that afternoon, and went back inside.

Pigwidgeon was still fluttering about his room, waiting for a reply, no doubt. Harry flipped over the bit of parchment Ron had used, and grabbed a quill and ink.

 _Ron,_

 _I'll make my own way to The Burrow. Going to borrow a friend's Floo. Same time though, yeah? Five o'clock, Sunday._

 _Harry_

He quickly fastened it to the tiny owl's leg, and the overexcited creature zoomed off with energy that belied its tiny stature. As he watched it disappear, he remembered another overexcitable animal he was rather fond of, and sat down to write him a letter. Sirius was in another country right now, and Harry wasn't sure how long it had taken him to get back to Scotland last time. If he spelt out his intentions in the letter Sirius might disregard it, so he decided to be as succinct as possible.

 _Sirius,_

 _No time to explain. I need you here by Sunday afternoon. This letter is a special sort of Portkey. Gather anything you want to take with you, make sure you're touching it and Hedwig, and then say Quidditch._

 _Love,_

 _Harry_

The creation of an International Portkey was a dubious thing, tricky and delicate. Luckily in his study of time magic, Harry had become very familiar with magics governing movement through space, as well. He could create an undetectable Portkey, but that wasn't good enough. By the time Hedwig reached Sirius, it might be too late, and Harry was reluctant to simply send Hedwig a week back in time. Hell, a week might not even be enough, for all he knew.

The process began by creating a normal Portkey, which Harry did with a tap of his wand. The parchment flashed blue, and Harry waited for the colour to dissipate before moving onto his modifications, which would transform it from a normal Portkey into a Temporal Portkey

Instead, Harry slowly inscribed a line of runes on the back of the parchment. When he'd finished, he cut his finger, dipped his quill in the wound, and began to write the final rune in his own blood. Sowilo. Power. The lightning bolt. It was his mark. This was both a signature and a way of binding the portkey to him.

Since Harry didn't know where Sirius was, the Portkey would be incredibly difficult to create. They needed magical anchors, like the place where they're used and the destination. By meddling with the magic of the location point, Harry had provided a new anchor, stabilising his creation.

But, of course, there was more to it than that. This was Chronomancy. Nothing was ever simple.

As soon as Harry had finished the rune, he lifted his finger from the paper. There was a crash behind him, and the sound of confused swearing. He grinned, but ignored Sirius to fasten the Portkey to Hedwig's leg, and send her out the window. Hedwig looked behind herself as she flew off, surveying the bizarre scene in Harry's bedroom. She let out an exasperated hoot, and disappeared from view.

Harry turned to face his Godfather, about to speak, only to burst out laughing.

Sirius was standing in a pair of swimming shorts, sand clinging to his feet, and holding the letter. He was looking very confused, and had neither any possessions or Hedwig with him.

"Harry?" he asked, more bewildered than Harry had ever seen him. Harry couldn't help but laugh.

"You didn't bring anything with you, and Hedwig's still gone, so I'm going to go out on a limb here and guess that you said Quidditch early. Did you forget that it was in your pocket and have a conversation with someone?" asked Harry.

Sirius looked abashed, which only served to amuse Harry more. Hedwig being gone would be a bit of a nuisance, but she'd find her way back to him sooner or later. She always did.

"I was reading your letter aloud," muttered Sirius.

Harry couldn't help it. He snickered.

"But Hedwig didn't come through the portkey. How was she here?" he asked, looking around Harry's bedroom. "Where are we?"

"It's a special kind of Portkey I designed. It didn't just move you through space, but through time. To the moment I finished the runes which would allow for temporal movement."

"What?" said Sirius, looking stunned.

Harry just smirked at him, enjoying Sirius' confusion far too much.

"Well, you and Dad liked to study off the curriculum too, so I figured I'd do the same."

"This is incredibly advanced magic, Harry!" exclaimed Sirius. "I've never even heard of something close to this. Where did you learn how to do this?"

"The future."

Sirius gawped at him for a moment, then closed his mouth.

"Huh. That explains the growth spurt."

Harry decided not to go into the full details of what was going on. He'd already given Aberforth about as much of an explanation as he was going to give to anyone, and that had only been because Aberforth wasn't going to be involved, so he couldn't get in the way of anything Harry had planned.

Bringing Sirius here was a whim, but Harry saw no harm in it. The old dog would have come to Scotland anyway because of his Horcrux dream, so it was just speeding things up a little. Besides, even though Sirius had died at the end of Harry's fifth year at Hogwarts, it was the first person he'd truly considered family that he'd lost, save for his parents. Even though he'd only known him a short time, Harry had felt an irrational closeness to Sirius, and mourned him more deeply than any friend he'd lost afterwards.

Taking the time-travel bomb remarkably well, Sirius flopped down on Harry's bed, scattering sand everywhere. Harry Vanished them, but groaned inwardly. There's always a grain that you miss, even with magic. One of the few truths of the universe is that sand gets everywhere.

"So what's the big emergency?" asked Sirius.

Harry looked his godfather up and down. He looked a lot healthier than the last time he'd seen him, having finally gotten regular meals and sun, and, most importantly, not being dead. Harry felt some unwanted emotion welling up, and pushed it aside before he began to recall the pain of losing Sirius the first time.

"The Quidditch World Cup," answered Harry.

"What? But that was last week. I read about it - the Death Eater attack, and everything."

"Weren't you listening?" said Harry dryly. "That Portkey moved you through time. Today is the Twenty Third of August."

"Oh," said Sirius. "So, what, we're going to stop the Death Eater attack?"

"No!" said Harry, vehemently.

Sirius raised an eyebrow, but Harry could tell he was more than a little shocked at the outburst. Harry took a deep breath and sat down beside him.

"Nobody gets hurt in the attack. Some Muggles were terrified, and the Dark Mark was in the sky, but beyond a few burnt tents there was no lasting damage. We have to let events unfold as they did before. They're leading up to something bigger."

"Why not stop them now, at the beginning?" asked Sirius.

"Voldemort," said Harry flatly.

Sirius said nothing in exchange, understandably. He bit the inside of his cheek, and stared at Harry, wonderingly.

"He has a plan in motion to resurrect himself within the year. If we move too soon, he'll move onto a different plan. But if we let things go on for just a little while, he'll think it's all going smoothly, and we can interrupt him at his key moment. Foresight is our only advantage. We have a lot of leeway. He's weak, for now. I can't tell you the details. Trust me?" asked Harry.

Sirius sighed, and ran a hand through his hair.

"Trust is a fickle thing, Harry. We lost your parents because we trusted the wrong man. Because we couldn't trust a good man, and because I - because I was a coward."

Harry saw the expression of self-loathing on Sirius' face beginning to form, and did the only thing a friend should. he slapped the mopey bastard.

"And how, exactly," Harry demanded, "Are you a coward?"

"I was afraid I wouldn't be able to withstand Voldemort's torture. I was afraid that he'd get the secret out of me no matter how hard I tried to resist. That he'd pull it from me with the Imperius Curse or Veritaserum or thumbscrews!" cried Sirius, his voice rising into a shout.

"So instead you let everyone think that you were the Secret Keeper, guaranteeing that you'd suffer in exactly that way. You offered yourself as a potential sacrifice, a diversion, to give them a better chance while Pettigrew held the secret. That's not cowardice."

"I was afraid," bit out Sirius.

"Of your own weakness. So you took on the dangerous part willingly, while removing your ability to fail. That wasn't cowardice. It was smart. Pettigrew was the coward who ran straight to Voldemort. Out. Of. Fear. Blame him, not yourself," growled Harry.

"Oh, believe me, I blame Peter," said Sirius in ominous tones. But the guilt had left his face, and even the momentary flash of anger was soon gone.

"Alright. I'll trust you. We're going to let the Death Eaters attack the World Cup and do - nothing? Spy on them during the attack? Is that why you summoned me here?" asked Sirius.

"Nope," said Harry cheerfully. The attack isn't important. We're going to watch the match. Ron's dad got tickets to the Top Box, and I don't go anywhere without my loyal dog these days. He looks out for me in these dark times, where murderers like Sirius Black are on the loose."

Sirius barked a laugh, and transformed into Padfoot. His coat was a rich, glossy black. Much better than the mangy hound that Harry had seen in his third year. He bounced around the room boisterously, barking excitedly, before changing back.

"Are pets even allowed in the Top Box?" he asked.

"Probably not. But the Minister of Magic will be there, and wouldn't you just love the opportunity to run around under his nose?" asked Harry. Sirius gave a fierce grin. "And I know how to play Fudge. We'll get you into the World Cup with me, and maybe even make your life a little easier."

"Are you going to pinky swear that your pet dog is Sirius Black and he's innocent?" asked Sirius, smiling.

"Well…" Harry trailed off. Sirius swatted at his head.

"I'm just going to set things in motion. Brown-nose a bit and suck up to the Minister. Maybe ask him some advice. Flatter him a bit."

"Ah," said Sirius, understanding. "Politics."

"Exactly," said Harry, hopping off the bed. He went to the wardrobe, and tossed a robe at Sirius.

"Here, we're about the same size, right?"

Sirius pulled on the robes, and shifted a little.

"Bit tight in the shoulders," he said.

Harry stabbed his wand wordlessly over his shoulder, and the garment adjusted to fit.

Sirius let out a suspiciously dog-like yelp as the fabric moved around him, only to frown, stretch back and forth a bit, and find that it fit him perfectly.

"Silent, no motion, and you didn't even look? Nice," he said. It was obviously a baited sentence, but Harry ignored the unspoken question.

"I'll buy you some boots next time I go into Hogsmeade," he said instead. "For now, it's probably best that you stick to being Padfoot unless we're alone.

"Right," said Sirius, shifting back.

Harry opened the bedroom door, and with a wicked gleam in his eye, whistled.

"Here boy! C'mon Padfoot!"

Sirius growled, and then tackled Harry, covering his face with huge slobbering licks. Harry laughed, gagged, and wiped at his face with the sleeve of his robes all in one motion, before booting his godfather off his face.

"I never answered your earlier question, by the way," said Harry. "We're in The Hog's Head. I'm working for Aberforth in exchange for lodging. Couldn't stomach the sight of the Dursleys any longer."

Harry made his way downstairs into the main room, Sirius bounding happily behind him. Aberforth was already behind the bar, polishing glasses for the night ahead. The barman scowled at the sight of them. Harry wasn't sure which.

"No pets, Potter," he snapped.

"You have a goat," argued Harry. Aberforth snorted.

"Betsie's not a goat. She's a house elf."

Harry stared.

"No!" Aberforth roared. "I am not fucking a goat or a house elf. She was too...loud. And annoying. And ruined the decor of my pub by cleaning it too much."

Harry stared.

"Sure, the papers went after me, claiming I was casting illegal charms on a goat, and all sorts of rumours went around. Helped by arseholes like you who go around claiming that their employer fucks goats in front of all his patrons," said Aberforth, glaring fiercely at Harry.

"We both like it better this way. As a goat she doesn't think of mess the same way, so she doesn't go around cleaning everything."

Harry managed to gather some of his wits, though he still stared goggle-eyed at Aberforth.

"You turned a house elf into a goat to punish her for cleaning?" he asked, incredulous. Behind him, Sirius made a noise that sounded suspiciously like a dog laughing.

"Not to punish her, just to stop her. She doesn't mind the mess when she's in this shape. Doesn't steal patron's glasses when they're still drinking to clean half a shot of firewhiskey. Doesn't scrub every surface raw. Besides, she likes being a goat."

Harry continued to stare.

"It's not a bad life," argued Aberforth defensively. "I feed her well, she's not bound by her magic to obey me like a slave or punish herself if she makes a mistake. And house elves have powerful magic. She could change back if she wanted, but we're both happier this way."

Harry tried not to stare, failed, and stared at Aberforth.

"I'm keeping the dog," he said flatly.

"Fine, fine," said Aberforth, eager to move away from the subject of Betsie. "There's a bone left over from the roast for your mutt, and we've plenty of milk if he'd rather that than water."

Sirius followed at Harry's heels as he walked towards the front door, but a horrifying thought came into his head before his hand touched the latch. He slowly turned to face Aberforth again, feeling dread in the pit of his stomach.

"You mean I've been drinking _house elf milk_ for three days?" asked Harry in horror, all the pieces slotting into place.

Aberforth just shrugged.


	5. Chapter 5

_A/N: Added some extra material in here about what happens at the camp, along with some interaction between Harry, Ron, and Hermione. Their full reaction to his changes won't come out until the three of them are alone, but I felt like I shouldn't just have him avoid them until school starts.  
_

"Right then," said Aberforth brusquely. "Albus will be here to pick me up any moment now. Lock up, and make sure all the food's in the icebox once we've gone. I've already stuck the closed sign on the front door, but there's always some sod who'll try the handle anyway. Make sure you lock the back door as well."

Harry nodded in assent, lounging in what he had discovered, after weeks of testing, to be the most comfortable chair in the pub. That wasn't saying much, but he'd managed to wriggle his shoulders into a pleasant crick.

"Where's that dog of yours?" asked Aberforth. "You taking him to the Cup?"

"Upstairs," replied Harry. "Do they even allow pets?"

"Not a clue."

"I'll sneak him in if they object, but it'd be nice to know if we should sneak in from the beginning or waste time arguing with a stuffy bureaucrat over who's allowed to bring who into the Top Box."

Aberforth rolled his eyes.

"Right. The Top Box. Courtesy of the Weasley family, you said? Forgive my skepticism," he drawled.

"Forgiven," said Harry. "But only because I'll be able to spit on your head from up there."

"Tch," said Aberforth. He made a move as if to head to the door, then hesitated, and went behind the bar to gather a bottle. This one actually had a label on it, Harry noted. It must be the good stuff. Or at least the stuff which stores were legally allowed to sell.

Aberforth brought the bottle over to the table where Harry was sitting, and carefully placed it in the centre of the table, a shot glass in front of each chair. Aberforth sat in one, leaving one empty space - which Aberforth nonetheless poured a drink for.

As soon as all three glasses were full, the front door opened.

Harry eyed Aberforth suspiciously. That was eerie timing. Dumbledore-style eerie. Maybe in ran in the family, along with being old and weird.

"Albus," Aberforth said gruffly, not rising from the table. "Have a drink."

Dumbledore strode in through the open door, resplendent in a vivid green cloak adorned with silver snitches.

"Thank you," he said graciously, only to see Harry sitting beside Aberforth with a look of shock. "Well, my boy, I suppose I was right in thinking that you'd be alright fending for yourself after leaving your home."

Harry pushed the empty chair with his foot, allowing Dumbledore space to sit.

"I'm much more at home here," he said. "Less chores. Some shouting still, but when I shout back he recognizes my sarcasm and wit. That was always wasted on the Dursleys'. They didn't understand what I was saying so they'd get confused, and then angry."

"Which was plain wasteful," muttered Aberforth. "Go straight to angry, avoid getting confused, and you'll save yourself a hell of a lot of time."

"I'll drink to that," said Harry, raising his glass. Aberforth chinked his glass against Harry's, and the two men swallowed their drink. Harry took a moment to savour the burn in his mouth. It was definitely much better quality than whatever bootleg swill Aberforth usually served. As he moved to place the glass on the table, he saw Dumbledore's disapproving expression. "Oh, my apologies, Albus. The table was set for three, after all. Please, join us," he said.

Dumbledore sat, looking mildly disconcerted.

"I do hope you've not been corrupting young Harry, Aberforth."

Harry answered by picking up the bottle and refilling his and Aberforth's glasses.

"Ah," said Dumbledore, succinctly.

"I suppose it's just as well that we ran into each other here, Albus," said Harry. "There's something I've been meaning to discuss with you."

"Yes," said Dumbledore. "After our previous encounter, I suspected we might need a little conversation to help us find our way." He sat down, and sighed. "I still think of you as the eleven year old boy standing in the Great Hall for the first time. I can stretch that to twelve, or thirteen, but...you're not a child anymore, are you?" he asked, rhetorically.

"Shall we toast to that?" suggested Aberforth, hoisting his glass in the air.

"To lost youth? No, I think not," said Albus, prompting a glare from his brother. Harry speculated that Aberforth mostly just wanted a drink, and didn't give a shit what they were toasting.

"How about we drink to the newest Triwizard Champion. Me," said Harry.

Albus gave him a speculative look over his crescent-moon glasses. There wasn't even a hint of twinkling in his eyes.

"So you're serious about entering the Tournament? It's dangerous, Harry. I'm not sure I can allow this."

"You can't stop me," said Harry nonchalantly. "I'm overage. I can walk right over that Age Line you're going to draw and place my name into the Goblet of Fire."

Dumbledore looked unhappy, and although he grasped his glass, he did not raise it.

"Potter has a better chance of surviving than any seventeen year old, Albus," added Aberforth, in a dangerously low voice. Harry glanced at him, surprised by the voice of support.

"I - yes. You're right. You're not that eleven year old boy today. You haven't been for a long time. Let's drink to your victory," said Albus, after a lengthy pause. His voice was quiet, almost sad.

The glasses were quickly drained, and as firewhiskey's trademark feeling of elation bubbled up inside Harry, he leaned forward to speak to Dumbledore.

"The Hogwarts Champion was killed. You know I can't speak of the future too much. I know you fear what I might say. But you just have to understand that you don't need to look after me anymore. It's my turn."

"Oh Harry, I fear you've been looking after yourself for far too long," said Albus. Harry laughed.

"I meant that it's my turn to look after you. Forget about Voldemort. You have a school to run. Focus on what really matters, not ghosts of Dark Lords popping out of the woodwork. I didn't get it the first time around, but this contest is more than it seems. The stepping stone to new ties between Britain and the rest of Europe," said Harry. "Build those ties, Headmaster. We'll need them."

Aberforth grunted incomprehensibly, and poured them all another shot.

"Enough of this maudlin talk. Albus, trust Potter. He knows what he's doing better than you can guess. Where are we staying?"

Albus blinked at the sudden change in conversation, and then collected himself.

"With the French Ministry delegation, I believe. Minister Fudge is going to be escorting the Bulgarian Minister, so I have been assigned the tender care of the French. A rare opportunity to discuss the upcoming event's last-minute preparations."

Harry shook his head, half amused, and half in disdain.

"Even at the Quidditch World Cup, it all comes down to politics."

"I'm afraid so," said Albus.

"Bastards," summarised Aberforth. "Another drink?"

Dumbledore stood rather too quickly, almost knocking his chair over.

"Ah - I think perhaps it would be best not to. I have a rather long way to take us, and Side-Along Apparition is tricky even before you fill your belly with firewhiskey."

Aberforth pulled a long swig straight from the bottle, and then nodded, wiping his mouth with the sleeve of his robe and belching.

"Know where the Floo powder is, Potter?" he asked.

"I hate the Floo. I'm going to Apparate," said Harry, insistently.

Dumbledore raised an eyebrow.

"As your teacher, I should really frown on underage drinking and Apparition at least until the Ministry confirms your age," he said, teasingly.

"Your Age Line will confirm it well enough," said Harry. "And the less we involve the Ministry in this, the better. They have a habit of fudging things up."

Harry caught the shadow of a smile on Dumbledore's face, quickly hidden.

"Unless you've gone senile and forgotten the spell," muttered Aberforth.

"A fear I live with every day," said Dumbledore dryly. "Shall we?" he asked, holding out an arm to Aberforth. The two brothers clasped arms, nodded farewell to Harry, and Disapparated with a loud crack.

Harry checked the clock. Four thirty.

"Padfoot!" he shouted.

A furry black mass came hurtling downstairs, crashing headfirst into the table. Harry lifted the bottle to avoid it being spilled, but there was nonetheless a splintering of glass as all three glasses fell to the floor.

Padfoot looked sheepishly at the splintered glass, then turned his adoring gaze on Harry, wagging his tail.

"Stupid hound," Harry muttered affectionately. He scratched Padfoot behind the ear, and summoned another glass from the bar, filling it to the brim.

Padfoot transformed back into Sirius and accepted the drink gratefully.

"Aside from the fleas I'm quite content to live as a dog, but you do miss the little things," he said, savouring the smell of the firewhiskey before drinking it.

"I'm glad to hear it, because you'll be Padfoot for at least the next week. Maybe longer," said Harry.

"Longer?" asked Sirius.

"Ron brought in a pet rat. Lee Jordan brought in a pet tarantula. I may as well up the stakes and take my beloved pet dog to Hogwarts."

Sirius groaned.

"I tried that last year. It was mostly Dementors and eating rubbish."

"This time you'll be in a luxurious doggy basket at the foot of my bed. Gryffindor colours, red and gold. The house elves will bring you all the dog biscuits you could ever eat."

Sirius whined at the mention of dog biscuits, making a sound low in his throat.

"Those things are vile," he complained. "I'll show you where the kitchens are. You can bring me proper food."

"Already know where the kitchens are," said Harry. "Ready to give up your tropical holiday in favour of Hogwarts?"

Sirius rolled his shoulders back and grinned.

"Hogwarts was my first real home. It'll be good to be back."

"I know the feeling," said Harry quietly. Sirius gave him a piercing look.

"So you're shot of the Dursleys for good, now?" he asked. Harry nodded in agreement. Sirius paused for a moment, looking melancholy.

"Do you remember what I said last year?" Sirius asked, hesitantly. "That if you wanted - if you didn't want to go back to your Aunt and Uncle's…" he trailed off.

Harry laughed at Sirius' forlorn expression, and punched him in the arm.

"Of course I'll live with you, you dumb mutt. Why else would I be inviting you to come live with me during school? We're housemates now, inside and outside school."

Sirius grinned, and promptly shifted back into Padfoot, letting out a happy bark. The glass which he'd been holding fell to the ground and shattered. Harry rolled his eyes and flicked Padfoot on the nose. Padfoot yelped, more from surprise than pain.

Harry checked the clock again. It was still early, but he was eager to get going.

"Betsie!" he shouted. A distant bleat answered him. "Lock up the pub and clean this broken glass away when I've gone." She bleated again in reply.

Padfoot gave Harry a quizzical expression. Harry shrugged in return. He wasn't going to pretend to understand the mind of a house elf. They were all mad. This one just happened to be a goat as well.

Harry put his hand on Padfoot's head and Apparated them both to The Burrow.

Molly Weasley shrieked. Padfoot growled. Bill and Charlie drew their wands.

"I'm sorry Molly," said Harry quickly. "It's just me. Didn't Ron tell you I was going to make my own way here?"

"Oh, oh, but of course he did," she stammered, "but Ron said that you were going to use the Floo, and you just appeared right in here all of a sudden!"

"I'm sorry I gave you a fright," Harry said gently, only to be smothered in a trademark Molly Weasley hug. Harry supposed he should have called her Mrs Weasley, but that was one sure route to being treated like a child. Addressing Mr and Mrs Weasley on a first name basis would help them to think of him as an adult, despite the misgivings Mrs Weasley was sure to have.

"Oh that's alright dear, but however did you get here? It looked almost like-"

"Apparition," cut in Bill.

Harry turned to the new Weasley with a smile, and held out his hand.

"That's right," he admitted. "I've met all the others, so you must be Bill or Charlie. It's nice to meet you."

Bill attempted to shake Harry's hand, only to realise his wand was still in it. He hurriedly put it away, and took Harry's hand in a firm grip.

"Likewise," he said. "I'd heard rumours that you'd had an accident with a Time-Turner, but you're actually overage?"

"It seems that way," said Harry. Bill stared at him curiously.

"I've never heard of anything like this happening before. Then again, we hardly understand anything about how time works, despite the trinkets in the Department of Mysteries. I even brought one in myself - a chicken that would turn into an egg, then hatch, grow, and turn back into an egg, endlessly."

Harry looked at Bill curiously. This was new to him.

"I thought you were a curse-breaker?" he asked.

"Yes, that's right. I find ancient magic artifacts. Gringotts takes any goblin-made artifacts. They're funny about that. The rest they sell, and pay me a finder's fee. Most of it is junk. Old-timey curios and archaic ways of doing things, but every so often you run into something important or unusual, and the Ministry claims it."

Harry nodded in understanding, and then turned his attention to the other Weasley in the room.

"So you must be Charlie," he suggested. Charlie grinned.

"That's right. And who's this?" he asked, getting down on one knee to rub Padfoot's head. Padfoot leaned into it, eyes closed, and tongue hanging out in visible pleasure. Harry repressed the urge to smirk. It seemed like when Sirius took on the shape of a dog, he took on the mannerisms of one, too.

"This is Padfoot. Most loyal dog I've ever owned."

"I'll bet," said Charlie. "He's gorgeous."

"Of course, I do have an owl that's better looking and more loyal," Harry continued, only to be interrupted by a firm thwack with Padfoot's tail. Charlie laughed at the sight.

"Is Arthur home?" asked Harry.

"Oh, yes, I'll just go fetch him. I'll let the others know you're here too, shall I, my dear?" asked Molly.

"No!" said Harry quickly. "Just Arthur for now, then we'll all go see the others."

"Alright then," she gave him a puzzled expression for a second, but left the room regardless.

Harry lifted the bottle he'd taken with himself and Padfoot from The Hog's Head, showing it to Bill and Charlie.

"My host suggested I bring a gift when visiting your home," Harry began, and then sloshed the bottle around, showing that a good third of it was gone. "But he also suggested we have a farewell drink, and toast to the upcoming match," he finished with an easy grin. "Think you could fetch some glasses for us?"

"I'd do a lot worse for a taste of that if it's what I think it is," quipped Charlie.

"Looks like we have a volunteer," said Bill sardonically.

Charlie laughed, and made as if to leave the room, hesitating in the doorway.

"Will that be five glasses?" he asked, an odd note in his voice.

"Yes, I'm allowed to drink," said Harry, smiling.

"It's not that," said Bill. "Percy." The two brothers exchanged a meaningful look, and Harry tried not to flinch. Escaping awkward family dynamics was one of the few perks of being an orphan.

"I'll try to convince him to join us for a toast. Just five minutes," said Charlie, without much conviction in his voice. He left abruptly, leaving Harry with Padfoot and Bill.

"You know, I always wanted to take a look at your scar," mused Bill.

"Along with every other witch and wizard in the country," said Harry, feeling a twinge of irritation. He worked to suppress it. He was used to this by now, and he liked the Weasleys. Besides, Ron's first impression had been far, far worse.

"Sorry," said Bill, meeting Harry's eyes guiltily. "Ron's told me how you feel about people always staring at it but never looking at you. The story of the Boy-Who-Lived is legendary, after all, but my interest is a bit more academic."

Harry raised an eyebrow.

"What do you mean?"

"Well, I'm a curse-breaker. It's a curse scar. Sort of my thing. I've always been curious if it had any effects on you."

"Like letting me speak Parseltongue?" asked Harry, warily.

"Exactly!" said Bill, excited. "You're not the Heir of Slytherin, so the ability had to come from somewhere. Although...the scar looks old and faded now. I was sure it was more, I don't know, alive in the pictures Ron's sent home of you lot."

Harry wondered for a moment what to say, but settled for an edited portion of the truth.

"The magic infecting the scar has been gone for a few weeks now," he offered. "It healed up like any other old wound."

"That's fascinating," said Bill, staring at the scar. Oddly enough, Harry didn't mind as much. This was a professional evaluation more than some bystander gawping at his forehead because of the scar. Bill seemed much more interested in the actual magic than the events of that night, and Harry found himself surprisingly grateful for that detached attitude, as if the scar was a thing Harry wore, not all that defined Harry.

"Can you still speak parseltongue?" asked Bill, just as Molly bustled into the room with Arthur behind her.

"Bill!" she exclaimed. "What sort of a question is that? Don't pester the poor boy about that!"

"It's alright, Mrs Weasley," said Harry. "We were just discussing my curse scar. It's healed over the summer, and Bill has an interest in these things, you know?"

"Oh, well, it was still insensitive," she said. "But here we are. Where's Charlie?"

"I sent him on an errand," Harry said. "I hope you don't mind me borrowing him. You seem to have a surplus of boys around here. I thought you could spare one for a moment."

Arthur chuckled at that.

"It's good to have everyone back under one roof again, though it's a bit of a squeeze. Molly said you wanted to speak to me before you saw the others, Harry?" he asked, a note of concern in his voice.

At that moment, Charlie came back into the kitchen, dragging a reluctant Percy whose arms were filled with glasses.

"Perfect timing," whispered Harry to Charlie, who grinned.

Harry waved his wand in the direction of the glasses Percy was holding, and levitated them into a neat circle in the middle of the room.

"Oh, Harry! No magic outside of school!" cried Mrs Weasley in concern.

"It's okay," Harry said, "I really am overage now. Which is why I had Charlie playing fetch, and wanted to see you before the others. My host gave me a gift to bring, as thanks for you inviting me into your home. I'm afraid I have to apologise on his behalf, as he also used it to toast me farewell, but it's mostly intact."

Having finished speaking, Harry lifted the bottle where everyone could see, and carefully poured a measure into all six glasses.

"That's very kind of you Harry," said Arthur, only to be elbowed by his wife. "But, er, I won't pretend to understand what's happened to you, but are you sure you should be drinking?"

"Molly, you don't need to make Arthur ask awkward questions for you, surely?" quipped Harry. The woman turned red, and both Bill and Charlie sniggered.

"As a minor, you definitely should not be drinking," said Percy in prim tones.

"Good to see you too, Percy," said Harry, handing him a glass. Despite Percy's hostile voice, he grudgingly accepted the glass.

Seeing the opportunity, Charlie seized one of the floating glasses. Bill quickly followed suit. Arthur smiled, and reached out with a more relaxed motion to take his, while Harry placed the bottle on the kitchen counter, and summoned a glass into his hand. Only one remained.

"Oh, go on, love. It's just one drop with our boys. And if Harry was underage there'd be Ministry wizards chasing after his wands for that neat little bit of spellwork just there," Arthur cajoled.

Molly relented, and took the final glass, but she didn't look happy about it.

"I'm glad you're joining us, Molly," said Harry, giving her a winning smile. She smiled back at him, but looked uncomfortable. "Well then, now that we all have our drinks, I propose a toast."

"What are we going to drink to?" asked Arthur, looking amused. "Since you brought the bottle, you get to choose."

"Then I'll raise a glass to your lovely family, Arthur, Molly. Thank you for welcoming me into your home."

Everybody raised their glasses to touch together, then drank in silence.

"Oh my," said Arthur. "That was a marvellous drop. I haven't tasted anything so fine in years." A murmur of assent went around the room as Harry and the Weasleys basked in the effusive glow of firewhiskey.

"Glad you came now, Perce?" teased Charlie good-naturedly.

The firewhiskey had already mellowed Percy somewhat, so he didn't have the terse reply which Harry had expected. That was one of the wonders of firewhiskey. While Muggle whiskey would get you drunk, firewhiskey gave an immediate sense of elation to the drinker. There was no waiting for the body to metabolise the alcohol; it was magic, straight into your mouth.

"I suppose the cauldron bottom reports can wait until after dinner," said Percy ruefully.

Bill laughed, and ruffled Percy's hair.

"Now that's the spirit!" he cried.

Harry eyed the bottle with a measuring glance, and figured that he had just enough left in there for another six drinks.

"Well, since you enjoyed it, we may as well have another," said Harry. He flicked his wand at the bottle, and the firewhiskey streamed upwards through the open air, twisting like a rope until it reached the centre of the room, where individual fibres split off, and flew gently into everybody's glasses.

"Oh, Harry!" said Molly, attempting to put on a scolding voice but without any real force behind it.

"An invitation to the Quidditch World Cup is no small gift. I have to show my thanks somehow, don't I?" he asked, smiling disarmingly.

"I thought that the bottle was a gift for being invited into our house," teased Charlie. Bill slapped his brother on the back of his head.

"You're always welcome at The Burrow, Harry," said Arthur, seriously.

Harry simply smiled in return.

"I've always felt welcome, too," he replied. Molly looked as if she was going to burst into tears, and Harry tried not to laugh. He knew that it had nothing to do with the alcohol. The woman was just peculiar that way. "But it's your turn to choose what we drink to."

"Me?" asked Arthur.

"As the head of the family, you choose the second toast," said Harry, making up rules of etiquette off the cuff.

"Then I'll drink to your health. We were all worried after reading about your accident. It's good to see that you're well."

"I'll drink to that," added Molly hesitantly. The Weasleys all raised their glasses and drank a second time. Harry grinned at the scene in front of him. All that time around Aberforth really had infected him. He'd have to make sure not to make impromptu firewhiskey toasts in the Gryffindor Common Room.

"I can't drink to my own health," said Harry, looking at his still-full glass. "That's just silly. I'll drink to Padfoot's health, instead."

Padfoot barked in acknowledgement, and the room laughed.

Just then, Ron and Hermione wandered into the kitchen.

"Mum, Harry's overdue. Do you think…" he trailed off, catching sight of Harry.

"Have you been drinking?" demanded Hermione incredulously.

"Sorry Ron. I Apparated straight into the kitchen. I forgot that I'd said I was coming by Floo. But Padfoot hates those things, don't you boy?" Harry patted Padfoot's head, and Padfoot made a noise of agreement.

"You brought Padfoot with you?" exclaimed Hermione, entirely forgetting about the fact that five Weasleys holding empty glasses and a bottle of firewhiskey were in the room.

"Yeah," said Harry. "I thought he might like to see the World Cup. He loves Quidditch. Hasn't had a chance to play for a while, though."

Bill, Charlie, and Ron laughed, although Ron laughed twice as hard as the others because, of course, he knew who Padfoot really was.

"Are dogs even allowed in the stadium?" asked Hermione.

"Well, technically yes, each witch or wizard is entitled to bring one familiar with them. Although we've been trying hard to make sure nobody finds out about that or it'd be a menagerie," said Percy helpfully.

Harry looked at him in surprise. Go Percy. A little firewhiskey goes a long way in helping loosen those cauldron bottom reports up.

"Already 'we' is it, Percy?" asked Fred, coming into the already packed room.

"Only just joined the Ministry, and Percy's a power of his own, I tell you," added George, also squeezing into the room.

Ginny slipped in silently behind them, and Harry groaned.

"There are too many Weasleys in this room!" he cried out, grabbing the bottle of firewhiskey. Aha! There was some left. It was only just over half a glass, but Harry topped himself up and knocked it back in full view of the entire Weasley family and Hermione.

Hermione's expression was priceless.

With all the Weasleys in one room, Harry found himself trapped. There were worse prisons. He'd grown up in one.

"Mate, was that really firewhiskey?" asked Ron in a shell-shocked voice.

"Yeah. My employer gave me some to bring as a gift, so we had a toast just before you guys came in. Sorry I couldn't save you any. Your mum would have killed me."

Ron chuckled nervously at that, but his eyes flicked up and down Harry's new height,

"Some growth spurt, huh?"

"I'll say," replied Harry. Ron stood there awkwardly, shuffling his feet until Harry took pity on him.

"So how was your summer?" he asked.

"It's been great having Bill and Charlie back," Ron enthused, "but Percy's turned insane since getting that job at the Ministry. This is the first time I've seen him away from his desk in weeks. First time I've seen him smile at anyone, actually," he added in a startled voice, watching Percy chatting easily with his mother.

"A bit of firewhiskey and fresh air does wonders for the soul," said Harry,

"Fresh air?" asked Ron.

Harry paused, thinking, and then opened a window. Ron let out a nervous laugh.

"Harry, mate...what happened to you? We read all sorts in the Prophet about an accident with a Time-Turner. They were saying horrible things could have happened. We've all been so worried that you - " Ron cut himself off mid-sentence. "Was it because of what happened last year, when you went back in time to save Si - Buckbeak?" he asked.

Harry shook his head.

"It's a bit complicated, but it doesn't matter. I'm fine now. Better than ever, actually."

"No, you're not fine!" claimed Hermione, butting into their conversation. "You look different. Older. And you were drinking and Mrs Weasley didn't stop you. You didn't just have a growth spurt overnight!"

Hermione looked incredibly agitated, which worried Harry. He put a hand on her shoulder.

"Hey, Hermione. I'm alright. Really, I am."

This had the opposite response to what he'd expected. Hermione let out a soft wail and looked as if she was ready to burst into tears.

"They warned me it could be dangerous if I was careless," cried Hermione. !And I read all about the horrible things which have happened to wizards who've meddled with time. This is all my fault, isn't it!"

Harry felt his heart freeze in his chest. He hadn't expected this. Hermione had shared her Time-Turner with him. He'd used the Time-Turner accident as a cover story. Of course she'd assume it was related.

"Oh, Harry, I'm so sorry," she said.

Harry caught her by the arms, and tilted her chin up so she was looking him in the eyes.

"Hey. Hermione. This wasn't your doing. You've got nothing to feel guilty about."

"But you've lost years of your life!" she exclaimed. "Will you even be able to finish school?"

Harry couldn't help but smile at that. Trust Hermione to worry about his education in the wake of a magical catastrophe.

"I'm coming to Hogwarts this year," Harry told her gently. "But you're right. I am too old. I'm going to have to sit my O.W.L.S. at the end of this year then leave Hogwarts."

Hermione actually started to cry at this, silent droplets welling up in the corners of her eyes, so Harry pulled her into a hug. He noticed Ron giving him an unusually angry look at this, and wondered whether Ron was being protective of Hermione, or this was his jealousy setting in a touch early this time around. Harry had never been sure when Ron had begun to harbour feelings for their best friend, only that it'd become clear to Harry around the Yule Ball.

"It'll all work out," Harry said consolingly. "You'll see. Since I'm overage now I've been able to practice magic. The holidays will let me catch up on schoolwork, and I've had some tutoring."

"But what about your N.E.W.T.S?" she asked.

"We'll work things out. But don't blame yourself for any of this. I promise you it wasn't anything which you did."

Harry felt guilty as all hell, seeing Hermione blaming herself for what she thought was a horrible accident. He hadn't thought through how it might have affected her. She was usually extremely level-headed, but was as irrational and human as anybody else at times.

"What the hell happened, Harry? Did you - do something?" asked Ron. Harry cringed. There was a note of accusation in Ron's voice just then. He didn't want to spin another lie, so he called in his ace card distraction. He let go of Hermione, and took a step away, smiling at both of them.

"Why don't you two come meet my new dog? He'll cheer anyone up. Padfoot!" he called. Padfoot disentangled himself from Charlie, who had grown very attached to him in a short space of time, and trotted over.

Hermione gasped at the sight of his glossy black fur, and Harry saw Ron's eyes visibly widen.

"Is that Si-the stray you found at the end of last year?" she asked.

"Yeah," said Harry, running a hand through his coat of fur. "Some good food and a home was all he needed. It's the simple things, right Padfoot?"

Padfoot had been sniffing Harry's empty firewhiskey glass, but looked up at his words to give the three of them a distinctly un-doglike wink.

Hermione gasped.

"Wicked," said Ron, momentarily distracted from whatever it was he'd been feeling before.

"He's going to be coming with us to the World Cup. Since he doesn't need a seat, he just gets in with me," said Harry.

"Isn't that dangerous?" asked Hermione.

"No, nobody would mess with a stranger's familiar. He'll be perfectly safe," said Harry, sidestepping her question. She frowned, but didn't push it any further.

Harry left Hermione and Ron in Sirius' care, and walked around the room, happy beyond belief to see so many lost faces again.

Not too far away, Percy was being Percy, and Arthur was being polite.

"And of course the Department of International Affairs is worked to the bone with the upcoming top secret event we've been preparing. You know how it is, Father," droned Percy. "Everything has to be twice as perfect to show the superiority of the British Ministry. But frankly, I spoke to the assistant of the Bulgarian liaison, and his office seems to run in a far more efficient manner. They managed to source the - ah - problem for the first part of the event within days of our owl going out. Why, they even knew to use the local workers to their advantage, and when I mentioned Charlie's profession, they jumped at the chance to have him assist them."

Arthur was nodding along good-naturedly. From the expression on his face of muted neutrality, he was the only one in the room willing to listen to Percy at length. Harry tried not to laugh at the poor man, and decided to save him instead.

"Oh, are you talking about The Triwizard Tournament?" Harry asked casually, leaning against the wall. Percy's face immediately turned an interesting colour of puce, and he began to splutter.

"What? But how did you know about that? I didn't say something, did I?" he asked, beginning to panic.

Harry laughed, and clapped him on the shoulder.

"Don't worry, you didn't give away your boss' secret tournament."

"But how did you know?" asked Bill, taking an interest in the conversation. Charlie saw the mood changing, and came to join their little cluster at the end of the room.

"Because I'm the Champion for Hogwarts," said Harry in a matter-of-fact voice.

"Champions are selected by the Goblet of Fire," said Percy. "We don't know who it'll be yet."

"Oh, I do," said Harry lightly. "Which is part of why it's going to select me. But don't let anybody at the department know that I'm aware and said that I'll be the Champion, yeah? They'd start wondering who could have told me, and I'd hate for them to think it was you."

Percy paled at the thought.

"I know how much you value your work, Percy," said Harry. "But if Mr Crouch heard I knew, there'd be an investigation. The only Ministry workers I know are you and your dad. I didn't hear it from either of you, but you'd get the blame, and I'd never forgive myself if it cost you your job."

"R-right," gulped Percy. "I think I'm going to go finish those reports for Mr Crouch."

As Percy walked away, Harry noticed Bill watching him with an amused expression.

"At first I thought you were trying to threaten him into silence after you mouthed off," said Bill. "But then I realised you were just saving Dad from Percy's monologue." He grinned. "Good thing, too. Percy's a pillock, but Weasleys stand together."

"Although sometimes need rescuing from one another," added Harry, which made Bill smile.

"True enough," mumbled Arthur, as if waking from a long reverie. He must have been half dozed-off during Percy's entire rant. "But how did you know?" Arthur asked.

"Dumbledore told me," said Harry. And it was true enough for anyone with as flexible a view of time as Harry possessed.

"Hah," said Arthur sardonically. "Trust that man to always skirt the edge of the rules. But Percy's right, you have to be chosen by the Goblet of Fire, not Dumbledore."

"I know," said Harry. "And there are no students who've done the things I've done, faced what I have faced, regardless of their grades and spellwork. I have no doubt that the Goblet will choose me."

Harry laughed, and rubbed his scar wearily. "That must sound horribly arrogant."

"From anyone else, maybe," said Arthur. "But I remember how you saved my little girl, and suddenly I believe everything." Arthur gave a soft, distant smile to Harry. "Seven children, and we love them all, but losing Ginny...the youngest of us, and our only girl," he said, sighing. "It would have destroyed Molly. And I don't know how well I'd have fared. Or any of her brothers. You didn't just save her down there. You saved all of us."

For once, Harry was utterly tongue-tied. He had no idea what to say in the face of something so strong, so sincere. Arthur patted him on the shoulder, and they stood in silence.

"Harry…" started Arthur, before breaking off. Harry gave him a curious look.

"What is it?" he asked.

"Ron's been a bit out of sorts since hearing about your accident. And now that you've come back, looking the way you do, and having a drink with his family when he can't…" Arthur trailed off, but Harry understood perfectly.

"Youngest of six brothers, but not as young as his only little sister," Harry mused aloud. "There must be a lot of feeling left out going on in that head of his."

"You've got that right," chuckled Arthur wearily. "I know you boys are great friends, but worrying about you has been hard on him. And now that you're back, and suddenly - somehow - an adult. Oh, I don't know. That's going to be hard on him in a whole different way."

"I know," said Harry. "I know." And he really did. Ron's jealousy had been difficult enough to deal with the first time around, but Harry had hoped to get around that by openly entering the Tournament. It had been a stupid thought, now that he came to consider it properly. Ron had claimed he was angry because Harry hadn't told him that he was entering, but it had never been about that. It had always been because Harry had gotten another chance to be special. The Ron standing across the room, attempting to have a conversation with padfoot in whispers, was not the adult he'd remembered, but he'd still hoped to salvage their friendship for this year.

Harry let out a long sigh. His Ron didn't exist yet. And this current Ron might have entirely new issues with this entirely new Harry.

It wasn't long after speaking to Arthur before Harry excused himself, saying he was tired. In a way he was. He'd come back to change things, to save lives of his friends and others. But he knew that he had a lot of work to do to effect that change, so he might just have to let go of the illusion that everything was the same between them. It suddenly struck Harry that he wasn't just reliving his fourth year. He was living a new year entirely, set during his fourth year at Hogwarts.

When he trudged upstairs Padfoot came with him, and before too long, they were both passed out on a camp bed in Ron's bedroom. His godfather curled up by his feet was a comforting presence, and it cheered Harry up slightly.

Although he'd been eager to spend time with Sirius again, he'd never thought that his godfather would substitute for a pet when necessary.

Harry blearily remembered Ron and Hermione trying to make him get out of bed, but a few muffled shouts of "Apparating!" and growls from Padfoot had caused them to give up and let him sleep.

It was a good few hours later, and the sun was actually up when Charlie popped his head through the door.

"Oh, hey Harry. We were wondering if you were up. Mum's making lunch, then we're Apparating over. I was thinking I might take Padfoot for a walk, if that's alright?"

Harry smiled, and then yawned, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

"Want a walk, Padfoot?"

Padfoot trotted over to Charlie's heels and sat obediently.

"Tch. You really are a dog inside," muttered Harry. Padfoot barked in response. "So you really love animals, Charlie?"

"Yeah. All kinds. Hagrid was a bit of a bad influence on me, I suppose. Caught monster fever from him. There's nothing like a dragon to remind you of how big the world is. But even the little monsters like this one are great," he enthused, tickling Padfoot's sides. Padfoot rolled over, panting and wagging his tail.

Harry wondered just how much of it was an act and how much was just Padfoot being himself. He'd mentioned something offhand once about how their animal behaviours and traits carried over sometimes. Harry wondered if Sirius really did turn into a dog, mind and all, with only fleeting memories and echoes of being a wizard. He'd thought it was just shapeshifting at first, like Transfiguration, but the more he watched Padfoot, the more he wondered if it was something deeper.

"Looks like he's happy to go with you. Careful, he likes to chase rats," Harry added. Padfoot bared his teeth, and Harry chuckled.

"Later, Harry. C'mon boy," said Charlie.

After they had left, Harry wandered downstairs. It was just him, Bill, Percy, and Molly in the house. Percy was holed up in his room finishing a report, and Molly was cooking. That left Bill for company.

Harry found him in the living room.

"Morning Harry," Bill said in an amused voice. Harry raised an eyebrow. "I take it you're not a morning person, are you?"

"I work in a bar. My usual bedtime is when they were trying to drag me out of bed. It's against the natural order of things," complained Harry.

Bill just laughed.

"Do Ron and Hermione know?" Bill asked all of a sudden.

"That I work in a bar?" replied Harry, nonplussed. "We hardly got the chance to speak last night. They don't know yet."

"No, not that," said Bill, laughing. "I meant about the Triwizard Tournament."

"Oh, that. No. They'll find out soon enough," said Harry.

"That's good. We were hoping to keep it a surprise for all the students. Lucky for us we have the World Cup to keep the headlines busy while we prepare everything."

"We?" asked Harry.

"Well, the Ministry, I suppose. But with Perce and Dad in the house, you start to pick up on all of this 'we' and 'us' floating around. Glad I'm not with the Ministry. It's all paperwork and whose arse you should be kissing on Tuesdays."

"And whose arse are you kissing on Tuesdays that's got you too busy to work for the Ministry?" asked Harry in a serious voice.

"Best thing about goblins. They don't do politics. You do the job, you get paid. No negotiations, no failures. You cheat them, you die. You earn them money, you get a cut. A lot of wizards don't like them because they're so bloodthirsty when the rules are broken, and wizards don't get goblin rules," mused Bill.

"Like goblin artifacts?" Harry asked.

"Exactly!" exclaimed Bill. "It's thought to be a great honour to return a lost artifact to the vault. I dare say it's the only thing you could bribe a goblin with."

Harry's thoughts turned to the Cup of Helga Hufflepuff and the Sword of Godric Gryffindor. He sighed. That cup was going to be a bastard, no matter how he approached it. His brooding was interrupted by Molly dropping a plate of sandwiches in front of them.

"Eat up now, boys. Charlie's just washing Padfoot off in the garden. Goodness knows what that dog of yours got into Harry, but he's a sweetheart, isn't he?"

Without waiting for an answer, Molly bustled back into the kitchen, like a whirlwind of food, and came back with some more snacks.

Charlie joined them, and they ate more or less in silence. Padfoot's plate was on the floor, but his sandwiches had the crusts cut off. Harry eyed them dubiously. Padfoot met his gaze and wagged his tail.

After they had eaten, Charlie pulled out a map enchanted with the location of the Quidditch World Cup. Harry craned his neck to look at it.

"This was spelled to only reveal the location a few days before the Cup began. I think we're in this section," said Charlie, stabbing a glowing square with his finger.

"You okay with this, Harry?" he asked gently.

"What? Sure I am. You've seen me Apparate before."

"Apparating blind to a point on a map is different. Maybe it'd be better if I Side-Alonged you. Bill or Percy can take Padfoot," he said. The concern in Charlie's voice both amused and exasperated Harry.

"I've Apparated blind before, as well. Don't worry about me. Worry about where Percy is," said Harry.

"Oh, for Merlin's beard. Bill! We're out of time!"

From upstairs there was the sound of a door exploding. Harry tried not to laugh, but his efforts failed when Bill appeared, frog-marching Percy down the stairs.

"Alright, we're all here," said Bill, his wand still at Percy's back. Harry presumed that he'd forgotten that he had it out, but it made for an amusing sight.

Harry put a hand on Padfoot's back. Padfoot whined softly.

"On three?" asked Charlie.

"Two," continued Bill.

They all looked expectantly at Percy, who scowled, and then Disapparated without a word. Harry, Charlie, and Bill all sniggered, and then followed him into the campsite.

The Weasleys and Harry didn't have to look for long before they managed to reach the right spot. The Apparition point they'd chosen was fairly close to the spot reserved for their camp, and Padfoot's sensitive nose helped lead them in the right direction. As they grew closer, the smell of burning meat stung Harry's nostrils, and he wondered if Padfoot had deliberately led them to the camp or was just following the smell of sausages.

"Ah, there you are boys!" shouted Arthur merrily. "We just managed to get the tent and fire set up. Fancy some sausages?"

Harry eyed the charred lumps of meat on skewers which hovered over the fire, and realised why Molly did all the cooking in the house. Padfoot whined, however, and sniffed at them interestedly.

"Don't be greedy, mutt," Harry told him. "Everyone else has to eat, too. But no thanks for us, Arthur. Molly made us lunch before we Apparated in."

Arthur pulled a skewer off the fire, blew on it, and tossed one of the sausages towards Padfoot, who gobbled it up greedily. Harry rolled his eyes.

"I'm sure we can spare one sausage for a hungry dog. The others are inside. I bet you've never been in a magical tent before, have you?" asked Arthur, smiling knowingly.

Harry shuddered at the memories of spending too many nights hiding out in battlefield tents, specially constructed to hide from magical and mundane view. He'd be perfectly happy never setting foot in a tent again, but he forced a grimace away from his face.

"What's the difference?" he asked.

Arthur just chuckled.

"Go take a look," suggested Bill, giving him a shove towards the tent flaps. Harry relented, and ducked between the two pieces of fabric which separated the campsite and the younger Weasleys. Truth be told, he was still nervous about speaking with Ron and Hermione. They weren't the same people he knew, not quite.

He took a deep breath, and stepped into the tent. It was exactly as he remembered it, right down to the smell of cats and mothballs.

"Why didn't you come with us this morning?" demanded Ron. His tone was not the most welcoming one.

Harry flinched. Luckily for him, Fred and George intervened, jumping down from where they'd been standing to grab their brother from each side.

"Did you forget, ickle Ronniekins? Our baby boy has all grown up," said Fred.

"So he gets to Apparate with Bill and Charlie while we trudge up a hill before dawn," added George. "And you know what that means, right?"

"We hate you!" they chorused merrily in perfect synch. Harry relaxed. At least the twins were taking it in good humour. But he could see Ron's frown darkening.

"Hey, where's Hermione?" Harry asked, trying to move onto a different subject.

"She went with Ginny to get water," said Ron. At least he was speaking to him, Harry mused. Hopefully the excitement of the World Cup would be distraction enough to take Ron's mind off recent events.

"Oh, good. I wasn't looking forward to being grilled for the details of what happened to me," said Harry dryly.

"What did happen?" asked Ron. Harry hesitated, wanting to tell Ron the truth, but decided against it. He'd tell him soon enough, but there were certain events he couldn't risk altering. Not yet. Before Christmas, definitely, Harry promised Ron silently.

"I don't really remember much. Except waking up in St Mungo's. Worse than Madam Pomfrey, I tell you, mate. They wouldn't even let me get out of bed for a week. Not even to go to the bathroom."

Ron's animosity turned to curiosity upon hearing this, and then he laughed.

"How long did you manage to hold it in for until you wet the bed?" he teased. Harry smiled in relief to see Ron joking. Some of the tension left his body, and some of the worry he'd been carrying around faded. Funny how he'd been more concerned about upsetting his friend than stopping Voldemort, even if it was only for a single night.

"Even all grown up, Harrikins is still a little baby who wets the bed," crooned George.

"Did they give you nappies after it happened?" Fred added. Harry rolled his eyes, and joined in.

"It was worse than that," he muttered in dark tones. "Ever had a rabid medi-witch Scourgify your bladder?"

Everyone in the tent flinched.

"Mum used to wash our mouths out with cleaning charms whenever we swore," said Fred with a shudder. "It was awful. Thank Merlin she hasn't done it since we were little."

"Imagine that in your bladder," said Harry. Inwardly, he wondered if medi-wizards actually did use Scourgify to clean bed-ridden and comatose patients of bodily fluids. He hoped that they had a gentler, more specialised version. The thought of Neville's parents being subject to the horror which he'd just invented wasn't pleasant, and brought a dark look to his face. The others clearly noted it, and flinched in revulsion.

"But what about when you didn't need to pee?" asked Ron. "When you -" Fred interrupted him, in tones of abject horror.

"Harry, we're your friends. You can trust us. Tell the truth," he insisted.

"Did the bad people at St Mungo's steal your virginity with a Scourgify up your bum?" finished George.

Harry laughed, but refrained from answering. Ron looked torn between disgust and horror.

"How did they do it?" continued George, clearly unwilling to let the subject go. "Could they just cast the spell on you, or did they have to pull down your pants and shove their wand up your bum?" His voice was thick with fake shock, and Harry continued to laugh. The twins had always been a source of humour, and Harry had his moments of immaturity himself, but he couldn't help but be reminded of just how young they were.

At some point while George had been speaking, the girls had come into the tent.

"Who put their wand up Harry's bum?" asked Ginny, the very picture of innocence. Hermione turned bright red, having caught the obvious innuendo. Harry grinned at her and she flushed a deeper shade. Hermione was bright enough for subtext, and was a teenage girl, after all, but was utterly lacking in any experience of sexuality, even just jokes, no matter what she may have read. Her juvenile embarrassment was hilarious, and yet another reminder of how young his friends were - even compared to his new seventeen-year-old self, let alone his future self.

"A very bad person," said Harry darkly.

"What are you talking about?" asked Hermione, warily. Harry turned a smile on her. Best not to let her draw any erroneous conclusions from a fragment of conversation.

"St Mungo's has some invasive medical procedures," Harry said. "But the wand up my bum was just George fantasising out loud."

"Fantasising about what?" asked Ginny, in tones that were far too innocent. Harry narrowed his eye at her. That girl was clearly not as innocent as she was pretending.

"What happened to Harry over the summer," answered Ron. Harry threw him a look of relief.

"What did happen?" asked Hermione, parrotting what Ron had asked earlier. Harry sighed, and figured he may as well give a half-assed lie for the time being, instead of avoiding the topic and alienating his friends.

"I don't really know. I remember you guys sending me birthday cakes - thanks for that, by the way. They were great. Especially Hagrid's. He made it himself."

Harry grinned at the way Ron and Hermione winced, having experienced Hagrid's cooking before.

"But after that, I don't really remember much except waking up in St Mungo's."

"The Prophet was saying that you were in the long-term ward, though," said Hermione. "There were some really horrible articles saying that you might never come out, or that you could even die any day now." Her bottom lip quivered, and Harry resisted the urge to hug her. Things seemed to be going alright with Ron at the moment, and he didn't want to risk setting off his latent jealous side.

"I wasn't there for too long," said Harry. "But I asked them not to make a fuss about when I left. You know how much I hate attention."

"You should have told us!" Hermione accused, loud to the verge of shouting. "We had no idea what was going on!"

Harry looked guilty, and felt even more so inside. He really had dropped the ball on that one. He'd been so focused on the work ahead of him that he'd forgotten to let his friends know that he was even alive."

"Sorry," he mumbled, knowing it wasn't enough.

"Idiot," said Hermione, in her usual exasperated tones. But she didn't sound too mad, which Harry took as a huge blessing. She opened her mouth, hands set on her hips they way she always did when about to launch into a lecture, and Harry resigned himself for a long and deserved scolding.

"But if you weren't at St Mungo's, where were you?" asked Ron, saving Harry from Hermione's nascent tirade. Harry shot him a thankful grin, and Ron winked back at him. It seemed like Ron had noticed the budding lecture as well, and saved him from the ear-bashing. Harry had no words for how grateful he was.

"I went home," said Harry, simply.

"But you weren't at the Dursleys'," said Ron, in a dangerous voice. Harry flinched. He hadn't expected to be caught in a lie this soon. "We went there to check on you, you know. They hadn't seen you all summer."

"Sorry about that," Harry said quickly. "I guess you could say I've moved out. Permanently. I'm overage now, so I found somewhere else to live."

Ron seemed mollified by that. He knew Harry hadn't considered Privet Drive to be a home, so Harry figured that Ron had accepted the lie as a slip of the tongue.

"So where are you living?" asked Hermione.

"The Hog's Head. I work a couple of shifts a week to pay for food and lodging."

"And firewhiskey," interrupted Ron. Harry laughed.

"Yeah. Sorry. Aberforth - that's my boss - had a drink with me before I left and told me to bring the rest of the bottle as a gift to say thanks for the invitation," explained Harry. Hermione frowned at him.

"Harry, while bringing a gift is the polite thing to do, it's extremely impolite to start drinking the gift before you even show up," reminded Hermione. Harry gave her a rueful grin.

"What can I say? Aberforth is a bit eccentric. He's Dumbledore's brother," he added, as if that explained everything. By the knowing expressions on Ron and Hermione's faces, it did.

"But should you even be drinking? I know you say that you're overage, and apparently the Ministry agrees if you've got an Apparition license, but aren't you still fourteen inside? Aren't you still - " her voice wavered for a moment. "Aren't you still our Harry?"

Harry was torn by her words. It seems like she was as worried about losing him as he'd been worried about losing them.

"I'm the same person inside, Hermione. I just grew up a little faster."

She didn't look convinced, and was still visibly unhappy.

"So do you think you can get us some firewhiskey on Hogsmeade weekends now?" joked Ron, saving him once again. Harry felt a rush of relief. It seemed like the friend he'd been worried about was the wrong one. Ron was handling the situation a lot better than Hermione - so far. Harry really hoped that it'd continue when he entered the Tournament.

"Ron!" exclaimed Hermione, cuffing him on the side of the head while the whole tent laughed. Although Harry noted a speculative look on Fred and George while they laughed alongside the others.

While everyone was distracted, Harry turned to look at Ginny. He'd hardly known her at this age, so he doubted that these changes would ruin their future friendship. But then again, when he looked at Ginny, he caught her looking right back, staring avidly at him.

Oh, shit, he thought to himself, remembering the crush she'd always harboured for him. His change in appearance and confidence would definitely not help him out in that regard. He winced internally, hoping that it wouldn't be too damaging. Ginny had been a good friend once she'd been able to see him as Harry and not just her crush, but there was a predatory look in her eye.

Harry could remember how smoking hot the redhead had become as a woman, but the Ginny before him was a thirteen year old girl. Way too young for his older self. And even though he was now seventeen, mind and body, thirteen was still way too young. He shuddered at the thought, trying to avoiding mixing images of older Ginny with the child staring hungrily at him.

As he was actually seventeen, due to the intricacies of Chronomancy, Harry had no qualms about getting involved with Hogwarts students around his age. But there were teenagers and then there were thirteen year olds. The idea grossed Harry out to his core. If he was going to be doing any fooling around, it was definitely going to have to be with the upper year girls, who matched him in physical age, or near enough. That had a certain appeal after living with only an old man and a goat, although he couldn't remember what the older Hogwarts girls had been like back then. Or, rather, back now. But hey, he'd also have Durmstrang and Beauxbatons students around, and they'd all be around the right age.

Harry resolved to have some fun along the way while he was working to stop Voldemort's machinations, and gained a new reason to eagerly anticipate the start of the Tournament - hot foreign girls. He briefly toyed with the idea of trying it on with Fleur, but decided against it. He didn't need the added complication of hooking up with his rival Champion.

Suddenly Harry realised that he'd still been looking at Ginny the whole time that he'd been thinking this through. She was matching his gaze, to her credit, but had turned crimson. Out of the corner of his eye he noticed that Hermione had seen their little staring contest, and broke the unsettling silent stare.

"Are you alright Ginny? You've gone all red. Are you feeling okay?" he asked. Her blush deepened to the point where he couldn't even see her freckles anymore. It was adorable, and so child-like that it helped to knock the image of Ginny as a woman out of his head.

"I'm fine!" she said, a little too quickly. "Just thirsty. We went to get some water." Ginny raised the pail full of water that she'd dropped at her feet, but in her nervousness, knocked it over. Water spilled all over the manky old rug, which was no great sacrifice, but the water was also all gone.

"Ginny!" scolded Ron. "I was thirsty too!"

"The queue for the tap took ages," said Hermione mournfully, although without any accusation in her voice.

"I'm really sorry," wailed Ginny, more embarrassed than ever. Harry knew that this was his fault, so he patted her consolingly on the arm.

"Don't worry," said Harry, picking the pail upright. "If you're feeling the heat you shouldn't have to go get some more. I can do it."

"She spilled it," said Ron. "She should go fill it up again."

Harry shook his head at Ron's statement, mildly annoyed with his younger friend. As the only one younger than him, Ginny was the only one on whom Ron could really take out any when Harry wasn't around she'd usually fight back just as well as any of her brothers, be it teasing, insults or outright violence. The Weasleys were a boisterous lot.

"It's okay," said Ginny. "I'll go do it."

"Ron, you should go with her," stated Hermione. He immediately gave her a look of the utmost betrayal.

"What? Why?"

"She shouldn't have to go by herself. The camp site's huge. We barely found the tap the first time. What if she gets lost?" Hermione ranted.

Harry winced as they began to bicker back and forth. Ginny seemed to be shrinking in on herself, and then, with sunken shoulders, picked up the pail and began to slink out on her own to refill it. Harry caught her arm before she got more than a few steps away. She looked up at him, wide-eyed. He put a finger to his lips, and pointed his wand into the pail, casting a silent aguamenti. The sound of water sloshing inside the pail was lost under the argument as Ron whined about why he shouldn't have to go fill the pail and Hermione berated him for, well, being Ron.

"It's okay guys," said Harry. "She only spilled about a third of the pail. There's plenty left. See?" He took the pail from Ginny's unprotesting grip, and tilted it to show the bickering pair.

Hermione glanced at the very large, very obvious puddle on the tent floor, and then back at Harry suspiciously. He grinned.

"See!" exclaimed Ron victoriously, as if he'd won their argument. "I don't need to go after all!" His voice was full of pure glee, and Harry and Hermione both laughed at him. He looked a little confused at Hermione suddenly switching from lecturing to laughing, but shrugged it off, and went off in search of cups. Even Ginny giggled a little, and she managed to pull herself together a bit.

"Thanks, Harry," she said, in a voice that wasn't much more than a whisper. Harry groaned silently. This wasn't going to help that crush of hers. Not one bit. But at least she wasn't looking miserable anymore. He could work on - or, rather around - her crush a bit later.

"Our secret, yeah?" Harry muttered in conspiratorial tones.

"Our secret," she confirmed, giving him a wide smile. Her cheeks were still tinged with pink.

Hermione, watching the whole thing, rolled her eyes. Harry just shrugged at her in response.

"We were going to go explore all the festivities," Hermione explained. "Do you want to come help Ron pick out something ludicrous and green to wear to the match?"

"I'd love to help turn him into a living shamrock," Harry replied. "But I need to take Padfoot for a walk and have a chat with him." Fred, George, and Ginny all gave him an odd look at that, for various reasons.

"You named your dog Padfoot?" asked Fred.

"You need to talk to your dog?" asked Ginny, at the exact same time as Fred. Their questions were so in synch that Ginny could have been a tiny female George for a moment. George just gave her an amused look for stealing his trick.

"He's been called Padfoot for a long time," said Harry by way of explanation. "It was actually Dad who named him. It's been a long time, but I finally managed to get my family dog back."

Hermione gave him an exasperated but amused look.

"This place is crowded, but I don't think many people have been going into the woods. Maybe Padfoot would prefer to have his walk and talk somewhere quieter," she suggested.

"Yeah, don't want people to see you talking to Padfoot," added Ron, who'd just returned with an armful of cups, which he dropped unceremoniously on the floor, except one, which he filled from the pail. He hesitated, and then gave that cup to Ginny, and went back to fetch one for himself.

"People talk to their pets all the time," said Ginny. "I'm sure nobody would notice Harry among all the weirdos out there."

Harry grinned. So innocent and ignorant. Although he could see some suspicion in the twins' faces, he didn't think they'd have the faintest idea of what was going on - only that Harry was up to something.

"A walk in the woods sounds great," said Harry. "I might be a while, so I'll just go ahead and meet you guys at the game. We're in the Top Box, right?"

"Yeah," said Ron. "But don't you want to explore everything with us?" he asked, sounding disappointed.

"I do, but this is the only chance I'll get to take Padfoot on a walk without people around, y'know?" said Harry. Ron picked up on what he was implying.

"Oh, right. I get it. Want us to come along?" he offered. Harry smiled. Ron was clearly torn, wanting to go browse the various stalls and shows set up around the camp, but also willing to come with Harry if he'd asked.

"No, you guys have fun. Get me something to wear for the match, okay?" he said, flipping a galleon through the air to Ron. "And something for Padfoot if they have anything that'll fit on a dog. He's very into Quidditch for a dog."

The twins laughed, but Ron gave Harry a knowing grin and nodded.

"Dad's got the tickets. You'll need to get yours off him if you're meeting us there, or they won't let you into the stadium," he said.

"Great. I'll go get them. See you guys in a few hours!"

Arthur took a bit of convincing, but Harry finally managed to coax the ticket from him when he was distracted by Barty Crouch Senior coming by. The encounter left the taste of bile in Harry's mouth, reminding him that Crouch Junior was nearby, and there was nothing he could do about it. Yet.

Harry spent most of the day exploring the forest with Padfoot, who briefly shifted back into Sirius when he was sure nobody was around.

"Woof," he said. Harry threw a stick at him. He caught it with his forehead.

"You were really getting into the whole lovable puppy act back there," Harry said.

Sirius grinned. "James wanted to make me his permanent housepet so you'd always have somebody to play with growing up. Lily put a stop to it. He nearly had me convinced."

"So the dog brain takes over?" Harry asked.

"No, not quite. It's not just taking on the shape of an animal. An animagus takes on their spirit as well. I am a dog. Smarter than most, and I know things which I shouldn't, but in many ways beyond the flesh, I really do become a dog."

"Does it bother you?"

"It never used to. But seeing Peter after thirteen years as a rat...I can't help but wonder. Did all my years as Padfoot, hiding from the Dementors' touch in Azkaban change me? There are old stories of Animagi who spent too long in their animal forms and got trapped, permanently. At that stage it's in your soul. No spell can undo it. Not like Transfiguration."

"I used to want to learn to be an Animagus so badly," murmured Harry.

"What changed?"

"You died."

"Ah. How did I die?" asked Sirius.

"Future knowledge is a bad thing, Sirius. It'll eat you up inside, making you obsess over what will and will not happen. What you can change. What you can't. If I tell you the wrong thing, I could do more damage than all your time with the Dementors."

"I have to know," he argued. "You would want to know."

Harry sighed, and gave in. It was true. He would have insisted on knowing, if given the opportunity to find out.

"You died protecting me. No details," said Harry shortly.

"From who?" asked Sirius, a vicious look in his eye.

"No details," said Harry. "That's all I'm telling you. That and one more thing: it won't happen again. I fell for a trap and you saved me from it. Now I know about the trap, so it can't lure me in. And I mean to shake things off course so much that the trap is never set. Now. No more details, or I'll Obliviate you."

Sirius grumbled a bit, but shifted back into Padfoot. They made their way to the Top Box separately, meeting the Weasleys there.

"Oh, goodness, Harry," cried Arthur. "I was just about to go look for you. We've got a good half hour until the match starts, but you'll want to see the mascots performing, too."

"My, my, Weasley. Seats in the Top Box." Harry's skin crawled at the sound of Lucius Malfoy's voice. "Did you have to sell your house to afford them?"

Arthur bristled, but Bill's hand on his arm kept him from doing anything rash.

"Now there, Lucius, be nice. You are here as my guest, after all," panted an out of breath Fudge, who'd been running up the steps to keep up with Lucius' longer stride.

Harry tuned it all out. Although the match was fascinating, he'd seen it before - and seen recording clips on Omnioculars far too many times. Padfoot was standing on two legs against the railing, tail whipping back and forth furiously, having the time of his life. Harry smiled at the sight. He'd worried about bringing Sirius here, but the godfather he'd known had spent all his time in a cave or locked in a box. He deserved this.

Turning his attention away from the match, Harry noticed that Fudge was also less than focused on the game. He left his seat and wandered over to the Minister, who was poring over a small book.

"Is everything alright, Minister?" Harry asked, faking concern.

"Oh, oh yes, it's just these blasted Bulgarians, you see. And this phrasebook is next to useless. And with everything happening this year, oh it's going to be a nightmare." Suddenly Fudge caught himself, realising who he was talking to. "Ah! Harry! Forgive me. I was a little wrapped up in work. Can I help you with something? I do hope you're feeling better after that accident over the summer. I read all about it. Truly tragic. But look at you, you've grown! Healthier than ever! Not the type to let anything keep you down, eh Harry?" Fudge nudged Harry conspiratorially with his elbow, and Harry resisted the urge to punch him.

No. This was time for diplomacy.

Harry glanced back at the Malfoys, but their attention was fully on the match. Taking a deep breath, he grabbed Fudge's arm and pulled him out of the Top Box, into the empty corridor.

"Harry?" Fudge asked, startled. "What is it?"

"Actually, Minister, I was rather hoping I could help you."

Fudge looked startled for a moment, but his face soon settled into a condescending smile.

"Ah, Harry, what could you help me with? I have a whole Ministry working for me, after all." Fudge chortled at his little joke. Harry did not, and met his gaze unblinking until Fudge dropped his silly fake smile.

"I remember that you helped me out after I blew up my Aunt Marge last year," Harry said.

"Oh, yes, yes, accidental magic. Nothing to worry about, dear boy."

"Well that's the thing. You helped me. The Minister of Magic himself. I was very flattered. And surprised," Harry said, lying through his teeth, and trying to sound sincere. "So I figure that I owe you a favour in return. And there's something that you should know."

"Oh? And what might that be?" asked Fudge, still in his humouring-a-child voice.

"It's about Sirius Black," Harry said.

"Black?" hissed Fudge. "Have you seen him?"

"That's not what I wanted to tell you," said Harry, sidestepping the question. "Black's innocent."

Fudge looked as if he was about to make some blustery dismissal, but Harry caught his arm.

"The man who betrayed my parents was Peter Pettigrew. He faked his death and went into hiding. I've met him. He confessed."

Fudge rubbed at his cheeks and sighed, looking down at Harry in exasperation.

"Look, Harry, even if this preposterous story is true, I can't just call off the hunt for Black. And with the resources invested in him, we can't afford to waste more manpower hunting down a dead wizard. It's just not feasible, not without proof. I'm sorry, my boy."

"That's your problem. Resources," said Harry.

"What?"

"The resources invested in hunting Black. A waste of manpower, time, and money. Forget whether he's innocent or not. The last reports have him out of the country. No longer our problem. With a certain international event coming up, the last thing we want to be doing is advertising a possible serial killer on the loose. And if the Aurors haven't found him yet, it's likely that he's far from here. We have to look strong in front of our neighbours, don't we Minister?"

Fudge nodded mutely.

"We don't want them coming to Britain and thinking of Sirius Black and Lord Voldemort." Harry was pleased to see Fudge flinch at the name. I wouldn't expect you to just drop the charges on my word alone, but you have an opportunity here. The hunt is going nowhere. Redirect those resources into our international affairs and we could see some real benefit."

"I suppose we have been hunting him for a year with no success," Fudge mused, "and we're stretched to breaking point as it is."

"If we foster stronger ties with the rest of Europe through this upcoming event at Hogwarts, a politician of your calibre could use the opportunity to repaint the image Britain has gathered over the last few decades. Change us from a terrorized island nation into a growing part of global magic. You have a great opportunity in your hands, Minister. I'd hate to see you waste it searching for some lost thug who may not even be guilty - did you know he was never given a trial? Just locked away? Those were dark times, but Minister Bagnold was not the same leader that you are, sir."

"Oh, well, you're too kind Harry, but I really don't know what to say to all this," said Fudge in a strained voice.

"You did me a favour once, so I thought I'd return it. That's all. I'd hate to see your career besmirched by the international co-operation you've been working so hard for suddenly fall apart because the Ministry is too devoted to finding one wizard so terrifying that he's been issued with a Kiss-on-Sight order."

"Yes," said Fudge at length. "I suppose he is just one wizard, at that. Maybe we should see about rescinding that order. That way we can question him about how he escaped from Azkaban and fix the prison's defences."

"That's a fabulous idea, Minister. No wonder Professor Dumbledore speaks so highly of you," said Harry, trying not to gag through the heap of bullshit he was spewing. But somehow Fudge was buying it, at least a little.

"Why thank you, Harry. It's very kind of you to say so. You're a bright lad, no doubt about it. Perhaps we've been a little too fixated on this Black case, and need to get back to business as usual. Have you ever considered a career in the Ministry?"

Harry tasted vomit.

"I'm still not sure what I'd like to do after this Quidditch match to be honest, sir," he said weakly.

"Plenty of time to decide, my lad. Plenty of time. Have a good year at Hogwarts, now, and be sure to stay out of trouble."

"I'll do my best, sir," lied Harry.


	6. Chapter 6

_A/N: Every one of these chapters is longer than the one before it, and definitely not on purpose. I suppose it's a good sign, in some ways! In this chapter we finally reach Hogwarts._

Despite the Weasleys' insistence that Harry stay with them until school starts, Harry managed to fend them off with the excuse that his employer was expecting him back. They were disappointed, but Harry assured them he would see them at school before Disapparating back to The Hog's Head.

Aberforth looked up at his arrival.

"So. Death Eaters. That's what you wanted me to get Albus away from," he said flatly. Disapprovingly.

"If it makes you feel any better, he wasn't involved the first time. He must have left the campsite before everything kicked off. Nobody's hurt now that wasn't before because of you," said Harry. Aberforth grunted.

"Put a lot of fear in a lot of people, seeing that thing in the sky again," Aberforth said at last.

"I know," said Harry.

"You could have stopped it from happening."

"I know," said Harry, again.

Aberforth slammed his hands on the table and pushed himself upright. His chair fell backwards, landing with a heavy crack.

"So why didn't you? That mark - that symbol - it's a sign of everyone that we lost back then. Our worst memories coming back to light. A reminder of what it was like to live every day in constant fear. You weren't alive back then. You don't know what it means to see that hanging over the house of somebody you knew."

"I had my own war, old man," said Harry quietly. "I saw that vile thing in the sky more times than I can remember."

"Then why do it? Why let people remember those horrors when everyone's at peace? Happy, for fuck's sake!"

Harry raised his eyes to Aberforth's, feeling as tired as if he hadn't slept in days.

"You said it yourself. To remind them of those horrors. Of what's at stake. Of what's coming."

Aberforth growled, but picked up his chair and sat back down again. Harry could see the whiteness around his knuckles, hands clenched into fists, but the anger was simmering down. And Harry got the feeling that it wasn't directed at him. Perhaps hadn't been to begin with.

"What's the point in travelling back in time if not to stop that from happening again?" asked Aberforth.

"You don't get it," said Harry. "Even if I tell you a hundred times, you won't get it. You might understand the words, but you'll never truly know."

"Just tell me, boy. I thought you were here to stop that damn war from happening."

Harry gave a bitter laugh, joining Aberforth at the table.

"No. I came back in time so that we could fight that war. The first time was a slaughter. And it never ended. I mastered a new and forbidden branch of magic to get back here, but it wasn't so I could stop him from coming back. You can't stop him. I learned that lesson over and over again."

"Then why?" demanded Aberforth.

"So that we can fight the damn war!" shouted Harry. "Fight instead of die. And so that when we fight all the forces he can gather, all the evil in the world arrayed against us, we don't just fight, but survive. I didn't come back to stop it from happening. That's impossible. I came back to make it possible for us to fight this damn war and win."

Aberforth stared blankly into space for a long time, digesting Harry's words.

"He'll be coming soon, won't he?"

"In a way he's already here," said Harry. "Weak. Malformed. Without a proper body."

"Sounds like he's vulnerable. Catch him like that and end it, quick," muttered Aberforth.

"I could kill the body he's in, but his spirit would escape just like when I was a baby, and then I'd have no idea of what he's doing. Right now, I know how he plans to come back. I watched it happen, the last time. Ritual resurrection is a messy business," Harry said, and then paused for a moment before grinning ruthlessly. "And I plan to mess with it."

"You're going to make the ritual backfire?" asked Aberforth.

"Good guess, but no," said Harry. Aberforth raised an eyebrow, awaiting an explanation.

"It actually backfired the first time. Only the effects...they made him stronger than ever before. Truly immortal, not the wraith he became after he died the first time. Every time he died, the ritual reactivated. No need for sacrifices or full moons or fucking virgins."

"So the immortal Dark Lord Voldemort became even more immortal than before," said Aberforth sourly.

"And that's where I come in. First I make him mortal. Then I kill him for the first or fourteenth time, depending how you're counting. I know how that ritual works back to front. How it went wrong. How he became so powerful. I know how to change it so that it works exactly the way it's supposed to, and gives him a new but mortal body," said Harry, taking out his wand and placing it on the table.

He let out a long, tired sigh.

"I'm not like your brother. I can't match him in strength or knowledge. I'm a powerful wizard, but they're on another level. I've only ever escaped duelling Voldemort through dumb luck, being saved, or being a sneaky bastard."

"I'll agree that you're a sneaky bastard, Potter, but I think his lot might have you beaten at both sneakiness and being bastards."

Harry grinned mirthlessly.

"Oh, you have no idea. No idea at all. But I didn't just learn how to travel back in time."

Aberforth snorted derisively, but couldn't conceal the curiosity in his eyes.

"Picked up a few tricks when you were developing the spell?" he asked.

"Developed an entirely new branch of magic, more like," said Harry. "Beyond the wildest dreams of the Department of Mysteries. You're looking at the world's first Chronomancer."

"So what can a Chronomancer do, besides tend bar?" asked Aberforth.

Harry paused reflectively, and stared at his wand.

"You know, I'm still learning. And this is going to help me push the boundaries even further. I may be the only wizard to have mastered time magic, but I know there's still more I can learn to do." He pushed his wand across the table, and gestured for Aberforth to take it.

"This feels odd," Aberforth commented, running a finger along its length. "It's almost - what's the word? Faceted. Bumpy?" He shrugged. "I've seen some odd wand decorations, but never one with all those little spheres. You'd hardly know they were there unless you were close enough to get poked in the eye with it."

"Well, they're not supposed to be decorative," said Harry. "The wand chooses its shape, not the wandmaker."

"That's a load of bollocks. Ollivander does custom requests and modifications all the time," grumbled Aberforth. "The wand chooses the wizard, not its shape."

"It does when you make your own wand," said Harry.

"Huh. Work better for you than Ollivander's, then? To give you an edge over Voldemort?"

Harry shook his head, but smiled.

"No, nothing like that. It's perfectly tuned to my magic, but Ollivander's a master of the craft. His wands come within a hair's breadth of perfect matches in almost every case. At least, when he gets to help you pick it out."

"Then why not keep with your old one?"

"You remember how some wands are more suited to certain types of magic, like Charms, or Transfiguration?" Harry asked. "Mine is more attuned to Chronomancy. It's the first Chronomantic wand ever to have been made. It'll perform about as well as my old holly wand for most things."

"For most things?" Aberforth repeated. Harry smiled, and took back his wand.

"Time magic has been easier with it," said Harry. "And not just easier. I can feel a change in how it works. I'm closer to the magic now. This is what I need to take my mastery of time a step further. A specialist tool. And a teacher. And a partner." He gazed at it fondly, before stowing it away in a pocket.

"Your wand is your teacher?" snorted Aberforth.

"Is the magic in the wizard or in the wand?" asked Harry. Aberforth leaned back, momentarily stumped.

"The wizard?" he hazarded a guess. "But wands are magical too. S'just that the magic comes from the wizard. Goes through the wand. It's a tool, like you said. A focus."

"I bet your brother would have had a better answer," taunted Harry. Aberforth swiped at his head, but Harry easily dodged the tame blow, chuckling as he did so.

"It's in both of us. And this wand knows the magic of time in a way completely different to how I understand it. I can learn things from this wand that I could never do from my old one." Harry stared at the wooden tabletop forlornly, wishing he had the chance to experiment with some of his more esoteric theories. But now was not the time.

"What's it made of?" asked Aberforth,

"Birch," answered Harry. "It's a symbol of growth and renewal. The passing of time. It lights the way for others to follow, and inspires passion in the hearts of men."

Aberforth cuffed Harry on the side of the head.

"None of that airy bullshit, Potter," he muttered. Harry opened his mouth to object, and argue the important influence of wood choice when making a wand, but Aberforth beat him to it. "I meant what's in it. The magic bit. Unicorn cock? Middle finger of a grindylow?"

"Your imagination is inspiring," muttered Harry, while actually trying to work out what the magical properties of a wand made from a grindylow's middle finger might be. They were aquatic creatures, living in packs. Territorial and aggressive. Submerged under constant pressure yet also pressing outwards. It'd likely create a wand with good defensive properties, possibly with a quirky temperament, as some wands possessed; characteristics which caused them to act oddly under certain circumstances. Most likely it'd be more potent when several of them were used by wizards fighting side by side. Good wand for a soldier, Harry thought. He wondered if it might be worth trying to grab some fingers during the Tournament and try his hand at making some, but Aberforth interrupted his speculation.

"Well?" demanded Aberforth, impatiently.

"Centaur," snapped Harry, irritated at having his train of thought interrupted.

"What, a whole one?" asked Aberforth, in a voice so deadpan that Harry actually did a double-take and had to look at the man to be sure he wasn't serious.

"The optic nerve," he explained.

"Never heard of that before. You didn't get it from one of the local centaurs, did you?"

"I did," admitted Harry. Aberforth swore, loudly.

"Stay away from the forest if you want to stay alive, then, Potter. They're a vengeful lot. I don't know whether they'd just pepper you full of arrows or take both your eyes for the slight and leave you wandering in the dark."

"Your concern is touching," said Harry, amused by the warning, although he was well aware of how dangerous centaurs could be when riled. "But I didn't thump one over the head with a brick and pluck out his eye. He traded it freely."

"Fuck, Potter. What did you offer to make a star-gazing horseman give up one of his star-gazers?" spluttered Aberforth, eloquent as ever.

"Sight," said Harry, simply.

"Oh, fuck you. I get enough of that vague and mysterious shit from my brother."

"Tell me about it," muttered Harry in understanding. "He was a nightmare when Voldemort was hunting down the prophecy. Getting an honest answer out of him was like squeezing blood out of a stoat."

"Don't you mean stone?"

"Have you ever tried to squeeze a stoat until it bleeds?" Harry asked rhetorically. "It's fucking difficult. At least stones don't fight back."

"Do I even want to know?" asked Aberforth.

"Transfigured a Death Eater into a stoat. Grabbed him. Squeezed. There were a few other things happening, but you get the gist," said Harry.

"I don't know whether I'm more curious about what happened with the stoat or the prophecy," said Aberforth. He stood up, and made his way to the bar, where he began the daily ritual of setting things up for the evening's customers.

"Well the stoat bit me, so it won first blood, but then I squeezed it even harder, and…" Harry stopped speaking when Aberforth threw a dishrag at his head.

"Start cleaning the tables. And tell me the other story."

"Right, you must have heard part of it, too."

Aberforth grunted in acknowledgement. Harry waited in silence for him to admit it verbally. It was part of an ongoing attempt to get Aberforth to converse with actual words. Even after so short a time as Harry had been living here, it was showing results.

"Caught a wet-behind-the-ears Death Eater spying on Albus when it happened. Only caught a bit of it," Aberforth said at last.

"Did Albus ever tell you the rest?" asked Harry.

"Yeah. Surprised the hell out of me. I thought it'd be another of his secrets in the closet, but he called your parents and the Longbottoms here, and told them about it. Right here, in front of me. Guess he might have thought I'd heard more than I did."

"Or maybe he just wanted somebody else to know who wasn't involved," suggested Harry quietly.

"Maybe," said Aberforth, after a long pause. "You'd never think it, but he's as lonely as they come. Maybe he just wanted somebody else to know the score. And we're brothers. Shared old and terrible burdens for decades, so what's one more?"

Harry was surprised at that. He couldn't imagine Dumbledore, the centre of attention wherever he went, as a lonely man. But then he remembered how alone he often felt himself, despite being singled out as the Boy-Who-Lived, The Chosen One, or whatever other name some idiot could think up for him. Harry actually felt a little sorry for Dumbledore, upon realising that. He was still only human, after all. And the only two people who understood that were right here in The Hog's Head.

The silence suddenly felt awkward, so Harry broke it.

"The prophecy's dead now, you know. I already fulfilled it. Even though I'm back in time, before it was completed, it's still tied to my fate. It's just an empty glass ball now."

"Does that change anything?" asked Aberforth.

"Not a damn thing. He chose this fight when he heard the prophecy. I chose this fight when I found out he killed my parents." A slow smile spread across Harry's face, and he looked over at Aberforth. "And I chose it again when I learned how to travel backwards in time. But this time, it's happening on my terms."

"Hnf," said Aberforth. Harry rolled his eyes. It was worse than trying to teach a teenager to speak properly, sometimes.

"Think you can win?" Aberforth asked. Harry sighed, and ran a hand through his hair.

"I'm not sure, to be honest. Probably not." But then Harry straightened and brought back his cold smile from before. "But I'm damn well going to make it possible for somebody to win, even if it doesn't end up being me. He'll lose. Even if I lose first."

"Don't lose first," said Aberforth. Harry laughed, but silently agreed that it'd be rather pleasant if he wasn't murdered by Voldemort any time soon.

"That's the beauty of it. Even if he manages to kill me, he'll eventually be gone for good because of what I'm going to do. I win either way."

"Win the better way," grumbled Aberforth. "But win."

The two men worked in silence preparing the bar, and between the two of them, it was soon ready.

"It'll be a pain doing all this by myself when you go back to school," said Aberforth in a surly voice. Harry recognised what he was really saying, though.

"Aww, you'll miss me? I'm touched."

"But then again, it'll be nice to have the place to myself again," said Aberforth, biting the words out through gritted teeth.

"Oh, I get it. You miss having time alone with Betsie. If you want, I could spend a night at The Three Broomsticks to give you two some privacy," teased Harry.

Aberforth looked like he was going to throw something at Harry, but to Harry's pleasure, the old man couldn't find anything nearby that wasn't breakable and full of alcohol.

"Actually," Harry began, suddenly serious. "I won't be quitting this job when school starts up." Aberforth gave him a confused expression, so Harry continued. "I need to get into Hogwarts, as a Hogwarts student. But I don't exactly plan on going to class and doing homework. That's not what I came back for."

"If you want me to save you room for you, you'll have to start paying rent," stated Aberforth.

"Didn't you just hear me? I won't be quitting the job. That covers rent and more," said Harry.

"Albus won't like it."

"I wasn't planning on asking permission."

"He'll find out," warned Aberforth.

"I know," said Harry, and then he grinned. "But he doesn't exactly have a choice. The worst he could do is give me detentions I won't go to."

"So let me get this straight. You're going to Hogwarts to compete in the Tournament, but not to go to school. You're not going to go to class, or do homework, or, basically, act like a student?"

"That pretty much sums it up," said Harry cheerfully. "Although I'll probably go to classes for a little while, just for fun."

"Redoing a year of school hardly sounds like fun to me, Potter."

"Which is why I'm only going to redo, I don't know, about two months."

"Still not fun."

"It will be for me," said Harry. For a fleeting moment, Aberforth felt sorry for his brother.

After some idle days and busy nights, September finally arrived.

"I'll come by twice a week to work my shifts," said Harry.

Aberforth nodded, and went back to his paper. Harry waited for a response, but none came forth, so he sighed, and set off towards the door.

"See you in a few days, old man," he said. "Bye for now."

As Harry opened the door, Aberforth put down his paper, and banged his fist on the table.

"Oi! What're you doing?"

"Going to Hogwarts?" Harry answered, nonplussed.

"The carriages don't set off until the train arrives, Potter. You're eight hours early."

Harry paused, still holding the door open, and Aberforth groaned.

"Merlin's beard, boy. I can guess what was going on in that thick head of yours. Apparate down to London, take an eight hour train ride back up to Hogsmeade, and waste your whole day?"

"Er...yes?" said Harry.

"You're an idiot," said Aberforth. His voice was so flat that it wasn't even an echo of an insult. Just a statement. "Did you think the students who live in Hogsmeade travel to London and back?"

"I didn't know there were students living here," said Harry truthfully. Hogsmeade had been in ruins in his future, and he'd not spent too much time wandering the streets while living with Aberforth. The only times he'd gone into the village proper had been for an errand, and although there had been children and teenagers present, he'd assumed they were visiting for the shops, like Diagon Alley.

"You're an idiot," said Aberforth again. "The largest magical-only settlement in the country and you think that none of your classmates live here? How did you manage to survive with a brain so withered from lack of use?"

"Luck and charm, mostly," quipped Harry.

"Bah! The only thing you could charm is a goat."

"Are you hitting on me, Aberforth?" accused Harry in mock tones of horror.

"How the fuck did you draw that conclusion?"

"Well you obviously have a special connection to goats," said Harry. "And if you tell me I possess a certain goat-like charm, what am I supposed to think?"

"Would you shut up if I told you to fuck off?" asked Aberforth.

"Has it ever worked before?"

"No," said Aberforth, sadly. "No, it really hasn't. Merlin knows I've tried."

"So how do students from Hogsmeade get to the castle?" asked Harry.

"Same way as you, Potter," said Aberforth in exasperated tones. "Do you have to have everything spelled out for you?"

"Clearly. Because I take the train. And you just told me they don't take the train. I know you haven't started drinking yet, so I'm going to assume that you're either senile or a dick."

"Walk down to the Hogsmeade Train Station, where all your little snot-nosed friends are spilling out of a train, and get into one of the carriages that you've ridden every other time."

"Oh," said Harry.

"Are you feeling stupid?" asked Aberforth. "Because you should be.

"You must really be upset I'm leaving if you're being this much of a dick," said Harry cheerfully. Aberforth muttered incoherently for a while.

"Having sober company was a nice change," he said grudgingly.

Harry brightened at the hidden compliment, and then realised something which made him frown instead.

"Then why do you insist on forcing drinks down my throat constantly?" he demanded. Aberforth shrugged in reply, but Harry glared daggers at him until he responded.

"I said it was a nice change, not that I wanted to spend all my time with somebody sober. Besides, you're a barman now. You need to be able to outdrink anyone in the bar -"

"And still count change for five orders while breaking up a fight, yes, I remember," Harry said, trying not to smile. He wasn't going to encourage the bastard force-feeding him firewhiskey. Harry didn't really mind, if he was honest, but he objected to the lack of choice involved in the whole matter. "So the train gets here in about eight hours?" he asked.

Aberforth shrugged, which was beginning to really infuriate Harry, but spoke up before Harry reached for his wand.

"Something like that," he said nonchalantly, with no idea how close he'd come to growing a goat's tail.

"Well then," said Harry. "I suppose I'd better go find something to do."

"I have some logs that need chopping," said Aberforth.

"I was thinking more like taking Padfoot for a walk," said Harry quickly. He just had to go find where he'd left his blasted godfather. He'd taken to wandering in the Forbidden Forest for long periods of time, revisiting places he used to go with Harry's father and Remus.

"Right," said Aberforth. "You coming back after?"

Harry had his bag slung over his shoulder, containing all his possessions. He thought it over for a minute, and then shrugged.

"Nah, I doubt it. I'll be back for the shift on Thursday. Don't drink everything while I'm gone."

"Don't bring any students with you," Aberforth retorted. A moment passed. "Unless they're overage."

Harry laughed, and raised a hand in farewell before walking out the door. He didn't want to start smuggling booze into Hogwarts, but smuggling an older student into the pub might be a pleasant way to pass an evening.

"What's got you grinning like that?" asked Sirius. Harry whirled around and saw him leaning against a tree, eating an apple in the shade. Between the tree and the pub, he was entirely obscured from sight, but Harry still got nervous whenever Sirius was in his human form in public.

"I just realised that I'm the only student at Hogwarts with access to a pub, a bartender who'll serve whoever I bring, and a private room above it."

Sirius laughed.

"Your mother would blame me for corrupting you if she heard that!" he said, grinning to match Harry. "Your dad, now, he'd probably be proud of your initiative, but only so long as Lily wasn't in the room."

"And you?" asked Harry.

"I'm just proud that you're looking for time to have fun while you're on this mission of yours. All work and no play makes Moony a ravenous monster, as the saying goes."

"That's terrible," said Harry.

"Oh, Remus didn't mind."

"I meant it was a terrible joke," Harry clarified. Sirius barked a laugh, and nodded in agreement.

"Yeah. It was Peter's, now that I come to think of it. Wormtail never had a good sense of humour. Or sense at all."

Harry saw the familiar anger overtaking Sirius, and quickly worked to distract him with something else to think about.

"How are you at curse-breaking?" he asked.

Sirius quirked an eyebrow, and stared.

"Seriously? I'm a Black. I grew up in a house where everything was cursed. Sit in the wrong chair and it'd turn your legs into ash. Our housepet was a Boggart."

"That's nice," said Harry offhandedly.

"It really wasn't."

"But it could be nice. Today could be a really nice day. I just need you to break one teensy little curse."

Sirius regarded him warily.

"You never say teensy weensy unless some significant shit is going on. What's the curse?"

"I don't actually know," said Harry. "A Withering Curse, but powerful and warped. There's a ring cursed to kill anyone who wears it."

"Standard cursed jewelry, then," said Sirius with a sigh.

"No," Harry added. "Nothing standard about this at all. But let's see what you can do. Go woof." Sirius rolled his eyes, but shifted into Padfoot as requested.

Without warning, Harry grabbed Padfoot's ear and Side-Along Apparated him to Little Hangleton.

"Voldemort's actually living in this village," he whispered to Padfoot, who immediately growled. "We can't confront him yet. But we can steal away pieces of his power. He's in the largest mansion in the village, a few miles from here. You'd be able to see it if not for these trees."

Padfoot growled louder, and attempted to move in the direction Harry had been staring. Harry was still holding his ear, however, so it only took a sharp tug to stop him. Padfoot whined pitifully, and then nipped Harry's wrist.

Harry quickly let go of Padfoot's ear and rubbed his wrist. It stung, but had barely drawn blood. But at least he'd gotten Padfoot's attention back on track.

"So if Voldemort's in the largest mansion, you might be wondering why we're here, by the shabbiest shack in the village," said Harry, gesturing to their left.

An old, run-down cottage was nestled between some trees. It was built with stone as much as wood, but it looked ancient and out of place compared to the Muggle dwellings in the village lower down the hill.

"We're alone," said Harry, after checking their surroundings. "You can shift back."

"You're telling me that Voldemort's in a mansion but hid a cursed ring in this hovel?" asked Sirius. "I'd get it if it was a random trap for anyone who came across it, but you've got that look on your face. This isn't just about removing a piece of vicious Muggle-bait, is it?"

"No, it isn't," said Harry. "The curse was to stop people from taking the ring. There's something else hidden under the curse. That's what we're here for."

"The piece of Voldemort's power we're stealing?" asked Sirius. Harry nodded in reply, and set off towards the Gaunt shack.

The gate creaked ominously, and the combination of dereliction all around the building and a dead snake nailed to the doorframe made it a distinctly creepy place.

"If it's so important, why isn't it better protected?" asked Sirius.

"He hid it in a location nobody would think to look. Anonymity can be more secure than Gringotts when choosing a bank vault for special items. Besides, that curse is nasty enough. It doesn't draw attention to the shack like wards would, and it kills any trespassers, leaving their withered bodies as evidence of who his enemies might be."

Harry lit the tip of his wand, peering into the darkness of the shack. Sirius did the same. It was almost unnecessary. They found the ring almost immediately, lying in the dirt-floor of the shack as if it had been dropped and forgotten.

At the angle it lay positioned at, the emblem of the Deathly Hallows was clearly visible on the stone set within the Gaunt ring.

"Hey, I know that symbol!" exclaimed Sirius, moving towards it. "It's embroidered into the lining of your dad's invisibility cloak."

"Really?" Harry asked in surprise. He'd never noticed before. In his moment of surprise, however, Sirius had reached down to touch the ring. Harry swore, and stabbed his wand in a spiralling motion towards his godfather, who promptly disappeared.

He moved over to the ring, felt the compulsion radiating off it, and felt nothing but hatred powerful enough to override the magically inflicted desire. Not having any gloves to pick it up with, Harry looked around the room for something to use to avoid touching it. The shack was devoid of everything but dead leaves and the ring.

Harry sighed, and went outside to fetch the dead snake pinned to the doorframe. He pulled the nail out, and brought it back inside. Yeah, this was nasty, but it'd do in the meantime. He wished he'd thought to bring gloves. Or a hazmat suit.

With the tip of his wand, he forced the ring down the snake's mouth, deep into its stomach. When he was satisfied it was deep enough not to accidentally fall out, Harry picked up the snake. It felt as horrible as it looked.

Now that that was done, he had to deal with Sirius. He took a few steps back cautiously. It shouldn't be long to wait.

Sirius reappeared in the exact same location and position a few minutes later, crouching towards a ring that was no longer there. He blinked, and then stood up, shaking his whole body like he did when he was a wet dog.

"Ugh. That was some compulsion. Sorry."

"It's alright. I got the ring, though it's still cursed. At least the curse is in the ring and not my dog," said Harry.

"What did you do to me?" asked Sirius. One moment the ring was calling to me, and I saw that symbol. I was going to pick it up so I could show you the carving on the stone, but then - I don't know. It was like the world sneezed."

Harry laughed.

"That's one way of describing it, sure. I wouldn't have been able to stop you from touching the ring in time, so I had to go for my wand."

"Some kind of paralysis spell?" guessed Sirius. "It was pretty damn potent. It was as if I was there one moment, and here the next. Not like the Body-Bind which leaves you conscious and able to watch."

"Not really a spell at all, I suppose," said Harry.

"What?"

"I sent you forwards in time. Just a few minutes, so I could get the ring hidden away. Out of sight, out of mind. Do you feel any traces of the compulsion?"

"No," said Sirius. "But wait, you sent me travelling through time?" he exclaimed.

"It's my thing," said Harry.

"Merlin!" exclaimed Sirius. "How does that even work? It's not like Apparating somewhere. The future doesn't exist yet. There's no fixed destination."

"Technically true. But you're also completely wrong," said Harry.

"About what?"

"Most of it. Technically the future doesn't exist. Neither does the past. I just sort of set you aside for a few minutes, and you snapped back in here when the present back then had caught up to the present we're living in right now."

"I understand all of the words in that sentence," said Sirius, rubbing his head with a hand.

"Time doesn't work the way we think it does," said Harry. "It's almost like magic, in its own way. Don't try to think it through logically. You'll go mad."

"So how did you develop time magic, then?" asked Sirius.

"I went mad," said Harry, matter-of-fact as he could be. "But aren't we all?" He flashed Sirius a smile. His godfather returned it weakly.

"But - what did you do to me?"

Harry sighed, and tried to think of an appropriate analogy.

"Imagine that time is a boat with no oars or sail. I just pushed you into the river, and the current pushed us both along at the same speed until you managed to climb back in."

"...okay," said Sirius at last.

"It's nothing like that. But it's sort of like that."

Sirius looked incredibly bewildered. Harry patted him on the shoulder.

"Try not to think about it."

"What did you do with the ring?" asked Sirius, eager to find something else to think about. Harry held up the snake. "Oh, that's gross. Did you Transfigure it into a snake and the curse withered it down into that?"

Harry snorted away a laugh at Sirius' wild guess.

"No, not quite. I jammed the ring down the snake's throat so I wouldn't have to touch it."

"That's even worse," exclaimed Sirius.

"I know," said Harry despondently. "Do you think you'd be up for another go at the ring?"

Sirius took a moment to consider it, but at long last he sighed, and met Harry's gaze.

"No, that compulsion had me. Even with preparation and Occlumency, I don't know if I could hold it off. I probably could in the right circumstances, but then I'd be too busy fighting that off to remove the curse. You'd need an insanely good curse-breaker to get past that thing. Probably two, one for the compulsion and one for the curse."

"Damn," muttered Harry. "Can't get anyone else involved in this. I'll have to settle for stealing it instead of destroying it."

"Are you going to keep it in there?" asked Sirius, nodding towards the snake carcass.

"Yeah," said Harry. "Nobody's going to go looking down a dead snake's throat. It's a safe a hiding place as any."

"Where are you going to keep the snake?"

Harry shrugged.

"I dunno. Around."

Harry had taken to wearing the snake as a scarf. Padfoot gave him occasional looks of disgust, but otherwise the road was deserted. In the end, Padfoot grew exasperated, and shifted back in the middle of the street.

"Look, Harry, you can't just wear that!"

"Don't worry, the smell isn't too bad. My nose isn't as sensitive as yours," said Harry.

Sirius growled like Padfoot.

"Even if it's covered, that thing is cursed. Dangerous. You don't want it that close to your skin. Its influence will be diminished, but still seep through. Like the compulsion. Which has clearly being affecting you, because you're wearing a dead snake as a scarf!"

"It was the only only object nearby that I could use to pick it up. I didn't exactly pack dragonhide gloves and a barbecue fork to grab it with."

Harry laughed at Sirius concern, but took the snake off his shoulders to show he wasn't being mesmerised by the ring.

"No compulsion on me. I was just being a dick."

Sirius stared.

"I - oh. Well, sure, I recommend being a dick at all times. It helps make life bearable. But don't wear dead snakes. It'll attract a lot of attention. The kind you don't want."

"Seagulls?" offered Harry innocuously. Sirius ground his teeth, grabbed the snake, and stuffed it into one of Harry's robe pockets.

"At least you didn't try using magic on it. Any spell could have activated the curse as easily as if you'd grabbed it," Sirius muttered. And then he turned to grab Harry's head, forcing him to look him in the eyes. "Snake bad. Dead things bad," said Sirius. "What has happened to a Hogwarts education since I attended? People used to learn these things! Even in first year, I didn't like snakes or dead things!"

"Not all of us are as smart or scared as you, Sirius," said Harry, pulling out of his godfather's hold.

"I'm not scared of snakes," growled Sirius. "I eat them."

Harry stared at Sirius until he was sure he was serious about that statement.

"Just how much time do you spend as Padfoot?" Harry asked.

"Most of it. Why?"

"I can tell. I can really tell. We're going to have to get you regular breaks to be human in before you lose your mind."

"You're the one acting mad, Harry!" snapped Sirius. He went silent, but then put a hand on Harry's arm, causing him to stop. He looked Harry dead in the eye, as serious as Harry had seen him. "Actually...that might be a good idea. I don't mind being Padfoot. Sometimes I like it better that way. I've grown used to being Padfoot, but...maybe I need to find some more stability."

"Azkaban doesn't help with stability much, does it?" said Harry.

"Being Padfoot helped keep me sane, but it's almost a madness in itself. It changed me. Twisted something inside. Now that I'm away from the Dementors, I can feel whatever was wrong inside starting to change and heal. It's like the new happy memories I'm making are filling the empty spaces left by the Dementors."

There was something unspoken but obvious behind his words, his stare, and the way he gripped Harry's arm so tightly it was almost fearful.

"But these new happy memories are Padfoot's," said Harry. Sirius nodded silently. He was on the right track. "So you need more time for Sirius to heal. Like two different people in one body. Padfoot's better, but you're not, are you? Not yet?"

Sirius let out a long breath, and finally released Harry's arm.

"I will be. Padfoot is me. I am Padfoot. But if the strongest parts of my mind are Padfoot, then I can't help but think like Padfoot when I need to be Sirius."

"I can't pretend to understand how your mind works, but I get it. What you need. You'll have to hide as Padfoot in public for now, but we can find a way to get you spending more time as yourself. Build you up a core of good memories to replace the feelings that the Dementors sucked out of you."

"Padfoot's already there, so that's us halfway done," said Sirius, giving Harry a wry grin.

"And what about Sirius?"

"I've got two. Finding you - and flying to freedom on Buckbeak," said Sirius.

Harry remembered the sheer joy of flying on Buckbeak for the first time. It had been a wild, uncontrollable exhilaration beyond anything he'd felt on a broom. Because Buckbeak was alive. Wild. Magic. Everything Harry loved.

"Where is Buckbeak these days?" asked Harry, thinking fondly of the Hippogriff.

"He actually followed me back to Scotland when I got your portkey. Like he knew exactly where I was going to be. I've been visiting him on the days I didn't get to see you," said Sirius.

"I did wonder what you were doing off in the forest," mused Harry. "Sounds almost like he's your familiar."

"I've been wondering the same," admitted Sirius. "We both escaped our execution and flew off into freedom together. That's a pretty potent act. And we hung out afterwards, which would have given enough time for a bond to form. Never heard of anyone having a Hippogriff familiar before, though."

"Any magical animal can become a familiar," said Harry. "Most just don't want to, on account of being wild magical animals who live outside and like to fly around or eat ferrets, or whatever it is their thing might be. That's why almost all familiars start off as regular pets"

"I wonder if he'll deliver my post for me," suggested Sirius. They looked at each other and burst into peals of laughter, picturing a screeching Hippogriff bearing down on the Gryffindor breakfast table.

"I don't think people are used to bowing before the postman or getting disemboweled," said Harry

"Most of the people I'd want to get in touch with are a touch impolite," Sirius said thoughtfully. "Then again, most of the people I want to avoid are a bit impolite to me, so maybe I should send Buckbeak to them with a letter."

"I'm sure Lucius Malfoy would be thrilled to hear from you," said Harry in a deadpan voice.

"He was the bastard pushing to get Beaky executed, right?"

"And a Death Eater," Harry added.

"Fuck that guy."

"Don't worry," said Harry consolingly. "I'll bully his son at school and then we can kill him next summer. Deal?" Harry held out his hand. Sirius stared, and then grabbed it, laughing.

"Wait," he said. "Kill Lucius or his son?"

"Lucius," said Harry. "Draco might even grow up to be a human being with Daddy removed from the picture. "It's really for his own benefit."

"Can I kill him with Buckbeak?" asked Sirius.

"How?" asked Harry, genuinely curiously.

"What do you mean, how? Beaky's a lean, mean, killing machine. And my familiar. So don't question his killing power!" exclaimed Sirius excitedly. Harry rolled his eyes.

"I meant specifics," he said. "Are you going to duel Malfoy, then have Buckbeak deliver the finishing blow, or are you going to fly overhead raining down curses from Buckbeak's back? Or are you even going to leave it to Buckbeak, and lock the two of them in a room together until Lucius insults him and gets mauled?"

Sirius opened his mouth in wonder.

"Harry, you have a bizarre and overactive imagination. Where were you during my Hogwarts years? You would have been a much better fourth Marauder than Peter ever was!"

"I'm pretty sure I didn't exist back then," Harry said sardonically. "But if I did, it was in your fellow Marauder's left testicle."

"Why left?"

"Why not?"

"I can never tell whether you're mad or just a dick," said Sirius at length.

"I'm often complimented for both."

Sirius just sighed in response.

"You've changed a lot since I met you. You're a lot more like your father now."

Harry glanced at Sirius.

"Is that a bad thing? You don't sound too pleased."

"I just regret that I never got to see you growing up. I was in Azkaban until you were thirteen, but I had hoped that after that I'd be able to watch Lily and James' boy grow up. But you've already lived nearly as long as I have, despite your appearance, haven't you?" Sirius asked, sounding melancholy.

"I'm a few years younger than you if you add it up that way, I suppose," said Harry. "But I wouldn't count twelve years of Azkaban as twelve years alive. Your mind is probably still caught between Padfoot and you in your twenties."

"So I'm actually younger than you now," asked Sirius wryly.

"No, I'm seventeen through and through. Chronomancy affects more than just your body. It cuts to the heart of who you are. I think and feel like a seventeen year old, although I do have all those extra memories running around in my head. Once you get past the surface, you're probably a few years older than I am right now. On the inside, where it counts."

"Pity it doesn't show on the outside," muttered Sirius. That made Harry pause.

"Of course," Harry whispered under his breath. "Why did I never think of it before?"

"What are you planning now?" asked Sirius warily.

"I can probably help tune things up a little better. Match your body and mind."

"You're not going to make me grow mature, are you?" asked Sirius. "I hear thirty year olds are a real bore. Might want to think about leaving me cracked in the head but fun."

Harry smiled, but shook his head.

"The other way around. I can help revert the damage done to your body, match it back to your mind. The way you were before you were thrown in Azkaban."

"So you can make me twelve years younger, just like that?" asked Sirius, sounding both skeptical and hopeful.

"It's a bit more complicated than just waving my wand at you, but I think I can do it. It'll take time. And we can't do it until your mind has healed more, or we risk causing it to fracture," Harry warned.

"But...you can do that? Make people young again?"

"In a nutshell, yes," said Harry. He shrugged. "It's more complicated with you because of Padfoot and Azkaban. Easier with other people."

"I don't know what to say," said Sirius.

"That just about sums it up," agreed Harry, knowing the sentiment behind Sirius words.

"If people found out you could do that, they'd go mad. Spend fortunes for your help, and threaten you to teach them how to do it themselves. There's no limit to how far people would go, in either blood or gold. You've practically got an Elixir of Life on tap." Sirius' voice was low, dangerous. Harry was familiar with the dangers, but Sirius was just realising what they were for the first time.

"That's why nobody I don't trust implicitly knows," said Harry.

Sirius grabbed Harry in a fierce hug for a moment, moving so quickly that it startled Harry almost into drawing his wand.

"Promise me you won't tell anybody that you can do this. If it became public knowledge, people would come after you. And not just Voldemort's lot. Good people will do terrible things for a gift like that."

"Well you're getting this gift, and you're a good person. What terrible thing did you do?"

"Highest record for detentions in sixty-three years while at Hogwarts," said Sirius proudly.

"That's a little bit closer to bragging rights than a confession," said Harry.

"I always did disappoint my dear mother in committing acts of evil," Sirius mused. "I once tried to feed Snape to a werewolf. That was pretty bad."

"Nobody would have missed Snape," said Harry dismissively.

"That's not it. Remus would have gotten the blame, but it would have been my fault. I risked my best friend's life for a petty rivalry." Harry looked up at Sirius in surprise, but didn't say anything, wanting to hear more of what Sirius had on his mind. "We all knew how incredible it was that Dumbledore had let Remus attend Hogwarts. How hard he worked to give him a normal life. And in one moment of stupidity, I risked taking all of that away from him. He'd be expelled for sure. His wand snapped. Maybe Azkaban, maybe execution, but definitely both. In fact, they don't like to put minors in Azkaban, so execution was probably more likely."

Sirius had a grim set to his jaw, and his eyes were as haunted as they'd appeared on his wanted posters.

"Dad stopped Snape in time, though. Everything was fine in the end," said Harry. He was a little lost for words at this sudden confession. He knew that Sirius carried a lot of guilt, beyond his own parents' death, but he'd never heard Sirius so freely admit his own faults.

"Yeah," said Sirius. "Your dad saved all of us that night. Snape from being eaten, Remus from being killed or imprisoned, and me from killing my best friend." He stared morosely ahead, lost in the past.

"Hey!" shouted Harry, trying to break him out of his stupor. "I thought my dad was your best friend, not Remus. Who's your best friend, Sirius? Tell the truth!"

Harry's antics were enough to get Sirius to blink, shaking himself free from memories.

"We didn't exactly have a ranking system in place. We were pranksters by day and wild animals by night."

"So...the food chain?" suggested Harry. Sirius laughed, but then looked contemplative.

"That sounds about right. Remus was quiet most of the time, but intense in a scary way when you got him riled up. Your dad was brilliant in everything he did, whether that was excelling in school or raising hell outside classes. I was right there with them, always had their backs, but I'm a pack animal, you know? I wasn't me unless I was with them."

Harry noticed that Sirius didn't mention Wormtail, but then again, a rat's place in the food chain was pretty obvious.

"So I'm part of your new pack, then?" asked Harry. Sirius cringed.

"Never call us that. I've got enough Padfoot in my brain as it is. And it sounds ridiculous."

"What are we, then, if we're not a pack?" teased Harry.

"Family," replied Sirius immediately, his voice quiet but firm.

"Yes," said Harry, after a while.

They walked in silence for a time after that. With nothing to do but wait until the time came for Harry to leave, he chose to spend it with Sirius. They hardly spoke, but Harry found comfort in just walking alongside the other man; the godfather he'd known for so brief a time and then lost almost as soon as he'd found him.

Sirius was just as out of time as Harry was. Harry took some comfort in that, knowing that he was not alone. At least he had his work to focus on, to keep him going. Sirius didn't have a goal. His life had been taken from him, and he'd not found a new one since escaping Azkaban, except in the mind of a dog. Harry had promised Sirius that he'd help heal the years stolen from his body, but he also decided that he was going to help Sirius find a reason to find purpose again.

Harry knew that he was the only factor in Sirius' life right now. And while he returned Sirius' devotion with his own affection, he knew that Sirius couldn't live just for Harry's sake. That was no life at all.

Even if there was no way to clear Sirius name, Harry was determined to give Sirius a purpose. And while he was hesitant to admit it, there was a role that Harry would need to offer him soon. Him and many others. The role of a soldier.

Harry grimaced as his thoughts took a dark turn. Voldemort's return was inevitable. War was inevitable. But this time, it was going to be Harry who started it. Every death from here on out would be on his hands.

He looked down at his hands and clenched them into fists. This would be his war, not Voldemort's. The people he cared about were going to be in danger soon, and Harry was the one who would put them there. It was a heavy burden, but he accepted it gladly.

Harry touched his scar. Now that it had faded into a silvery line, it was hard to see - unless it was active. He took out his wand and pressed the tip to his scar, and murmured the name of the rune it formed.

"Sowilo," he whispered.

Silver light radiated from the mark, like light through a crack in the door. It was the colour of a Patronus. The same colour as memories.

The Death Eaters hid their marks from sight, fearing their discovery. Harry would wear his mark openly, let it shine bright as a gesture of power when he walked into battle. He would be a symbol of terror amongst his enemies, as the Dark Mark had been a symbol of terror for all of Wizarding Britain.

"Harry?" asked Sirius, staring at his glowing scar. Harry winced. He'd been so wrapped up in thought that he hadn't noticed when the other man had stopped walking, or when he had turned around.

With another tap of his wand, Harry extinguished the light pouring from his scar.

"Sorry Sirius," he said with a small smile. "Just thinking about the future."

"The one you came from, or the one we're going towards?"

Harry smiled thinly.

"The one I'm going to make. The one I'm going to build with blood and fear. But it will not be our blood. And our enemies will be the ones who are afraid."

When Harry finally arrived at the Hogsmeade Train Station, the train was a speck in the distance. He smiled at the sight of it, but resisted the urge to wave.

He thought he was alone at the platform, but then somebody familiar and huge appeared from the path leading towards the boats, his distinctive shape illuminated by the flicker of the oil lantern which he carried.

"'Arry!" greeted Hagrid. Harry smiled, and made his way over to his half-giant friend. Hagrid swamped him in a bear hug, which Harry tried to return, but his arms only made it halfway around Hagrid's midriff.

"Glad to see you back on your feet after what I've bin readin'," Hagrid said. Harry got the feeling that this was going to be a recurring pattern in his reintroduction to Hogwarts, and felt a headache coming on. "But Dumbledore came and let me know that you were going to be right as rain and the papers were exaggerating. I hadn't even finished reading it when he came down to my hut tha' mornin'."

Harry made a mental note that he owed Dumbledore a favour for not letting Hagrid worry. Despite his appearance, Hagrid was one of the most caring people Harry had ever met, and had been his first real friend.

"That was nice of him," said Harry, uneasy about the topic he'd gone over so many times.

"Brilliant man, Dumbledore. Everyone knows he's a brilliant wizard, aye, but not everyone notices that he's a brilliant man under all the magic as well."

"You noticed," pointed out Harry.

"Ah, well, Dumbledore's been good to me when I had nowhere to turn to. He looks after people who don't quite fit in."

"Like us," said Harry. Hagrid laughed, and gave him a pat on the back strong enough to send him stumbling.

"Aye, Harry. Yeh might not be as big as I am, but you cast a shadow twice as big, with all you've done."

"And it's only going to grow bigger this year," said Harry, both reluctant and eager to get started. "I may as well let you be one of the first to know. I'm going to win the Triwizard Tournament."

"I bet you'd give 'em a fine showing, but they've got a new rule saying you have to be seventeen to compete. Too dangerous, otherwise, though I'd wager it's nothing so dangerous as you've done before, eh?" suggested Hagrid, winking mischievously, which was ever so slightly bizarre when it came from a man the size of a mountain.

"I'm seventeen now," Harry said, as he was sure to do a million times over the near future. "Magic is weird, but brilliant, isn't it?"

Hagrid looked a little uncertain at that, but gave Harry a wary smile.

"I don' think they'll let you compete even if you have grown a lot this summer. Older kids have bin through years more schooling, can do things that you haven't learnt to yet. Yer a brave wizard, Harry, but the Ministry's watching this closely, and they like their rules, that lot. I'd say you've earned a fair chance at competing, but it's all regulations and paragraphs and safety with this bunch overseeing everything."

"Just wait and see. You know how things tend to go a bit - crazy - around me," said Harry.

"'least yeh seem in good spirits about it this time. Usually this sort of business gets yeh down. You usually try ter avoid attention," said Hagrid. Harry was a little surprised that Hagrid had noticed that, and then berated himself for thinking so little of his friend. Hagrid was simple, but not stupid, and Harry respected him too much to want to slip into casual dismissals like thinking he wouldn't notice the change in Harry's behaviour.

"This time it's my choice," said Harry.

"If yeh say so," said Hagrid, looking bemused. "But don' get yer hopes up too high. Dumbledore'll be giving an announcement at the feast. Don' mention it to anyone before then, either, alright? 'sposed to be a surprise."

"Alright, I can keep my mouth shut," said Harry, grinning up at Hagrid.

"Better than whoever told yeh, I hope," joked Hagrid. "Oh, 'ere she comes!"

This was a new experience for Harry. He'd always boarded the Hogwarts' Express, never stood waiting for it to pull into the station and unload its cargo of students.

He barely had a chance to admire the gleaming engine before it pulled to a stop and bodies threw themselves eagerly out onto the platform. Harry chuckled at the writhing mob in front of him.

"See you at Hogwarts, Hagrid."

"Later, 'Arry," replied Hagrid, setting off on his annual task. "FIRS' YEARS! FIRS' YEARS OVER HERE!"

Harry tried to tune out Hagrid's booming voice, and scanned the crowd, looking for familiar faces. Most of the sea of bodies looked vaguely familiar, but mostly what he could see were Hogwarts robes.

The notion of looking for his friends grew less appealing as the platform filled with even more students, all seeming to blend into one another in an endless sea of roiling black fabric. After a long hard minute of peering under hats and around owls, Harry gave up, and fled for the relative peace and safety of the carriages.

He petted the Thestral closest to him as he passed. It rubbed its face into his hand, obviously enjoying the attention. Harry scratched behind its ears, enjoying the strange texture of the Thestral's leathery skin.

"Harry? What are you doing?"

Harry turned away from the Thestral and towards the source of the voice, climbing up to join the speaker in her carriage.

"Oh, hey Alicia. Angelina. Katie." Harry frowned. "Do you three travel in formation even when you're not flying?"

"Harry!" exclaimed Alicia, but she laughed, anyway. "What were you doing down there?"

"I was just saying hello to the Thestral pulling out carriage. They're lovely creatures, but a bit misunderstood," he said.

"There's nothing there," said Angelina bluntly, pointing directly at the Thestral.

"And thank you for that textbook example of one of the reasons they're so misunderstood, Angelina. Ten points to Gryffindor," said Harry sarcastically. All three girls looked a bit taken aback by his harsh response. Harry realised that his behaviour had become used to the coarseness of Aberforth's company.

"Sorry, Angy," he said. "I'm just a bit tired of people trying to tell me things aren't real when they're right in front of us."

"That's okay," Angelina replied warily. "I heard you had a rough summer."

Harry smiled ruefully at her.

"I still shouldn't take it out on you. But here, give me your hand. I'll show you."

She eyed Harry suspiciously, then offered her hand as a peace offering. Harry stepped forward, pulling her onto the edge of the carriage.

"Careful you don't fall," he warned. "You should be able to reach…," he said, stretching out. His hands fell just short. "Damn. Okay, well, let's try this way instead."

Harry put his arms around Angelina, and lifted her out of the carriage, holding her a significant distance closer to the Thestral. She squirmed and tried to break his grip, but Harry held on tighter, not wanting to drop her on the bewildered Thestral.

"Stop wriggling! I don't want to drop you. Just reach out your hand. No, your other hand. Down a little bit."

Angelina gasped. Harry sighed in relief, and hauled her back into the carriage. She was incredibly light, but it was still no easy feat for him to hold her up like that for so long.

"What was that? It was warm and felt strange, like the covers of an old book," she exclaimed.

"Thestral," said Harry. He shrugged. "Now you know. These carriages aren't actually magic. Just invisible death-horses pulling them along."

"Invisible death-horses?" asked Katie, sounding dubious. "Angelina obviously touched something, but what do you mean by death-horses? Are they ghost horses or something?"

"You can't touch ghosts," said Angelina, looking at her hand where she'd touched the Thestral. "You go through them. And it's cold. I touched something warm. It was alive, whatever it was."

"They can only be seen by people who've witnessed death, so they've always been thought of as a bad omen. But they're just animals," said Harry.

"Do you like animals?" asked Angelina suddenly. Harry was surprised by the sudden question, wondering what had prompted it.

"I guess so," he said. "I love my owl. She's been with me since I learned I could do magic. And I'm taking Care of Magical Creatures, though I don't know if it'd be as interesting without Hagrid as a teacher."

"We heard about your first lesson with him," said Alicia eagerly. Harry recognised the expression and groaned. They wanted storytime.

"You'd have to be at the bottom of the lake to avoid hearing about it, the way Draco kept going on about it," Harry said. "But Draco was an idiot and picked a fight with a creature bigger and deadlier than he was."

"I didn't mean that part. We all know Malfoy was faking it for attention after he came out of the Hospital Wing. He only got scratches."

"Big ones," added Katie, with a malicious gleam in her eyes. "You could even call them gouges."

"Draco wasn't the interesting part, though," said Alicia, glaring at Katie for interrupting her. "We heard about you flying on the Hippogriff like it was a broom."

"I saw it, actually," said Angelina quietly. "It was amazing. I've never seen anybody ride a Hippogriff before. Or since." Harry cursed Lucius Malfoy for that, once again. He was positive Draco had taken the class in an attempt to get Hagrid fired. "What was it like?" asked Angelina.

"I - I don't know how to describe it. It was nothing like a broom. I wasn't in control, or sitting on cushioning charms, or chasing a Snitch. Buckbeak is something wild and powerful, and for a moment, he let me be a part of that. I guess that was the moment I understood the difference between magical creatures and non-magical ones. Hippogriffs don't look magical, or use magic. But they're part of our world, not the Muggle world. And when I was flying on Buckbeak, I could feel what he felt. I saw the world drop away until there was nothing but the open sky and this beautiful wild animal who had acknowledged me as a friend."

"That sounds...intense," said Angelina.

"It was magical," Harry joked.

"What happened to the Hippogriff?" asked Katie. "We all heard he was going to be executed, but then there were all these rumours that it had escaped," she said, pointedly looking at Harry. He looked right back at her, refusing to take the bait.

But the staring contest grew old soon, so Harry relented. Or, at least, met her halfway. Because he was too stubborn to give in when he could make a meaningless compromise.

"If you're trying to ask a question, you're not doing a very good job of it," said Harry. Alicia laughed, but covered her mouth behind her hands to stifle the sound. It was too little, too late, and she earned a glare from Katie before she turned her attention back to Harry.

"Well if you're going to be fussy about it," muttered Katie, "We heard that you helped it escape."

"And flew off into the moonlight on its back?" Harry drawled, raising an eyebrow at her. She turned pink, and gave out yet another glare. This one was for him. Ironic, really, considering that he actually had flown off into the moonlight on Buckbeak's back.

"Well, I doubt it'll do any harm to tell you. Buckbeak's free now, and I can't imagine any of you were clamouring for his execution." All three girls vehemently denied having ever spoken against Buckbeak.

"We wanted to shake its hand. Talons. Whatever. For cutting up Malfoy," claimed Katie.

Harry laughed.

"I'm sure you did. But it's he, not it."

"What?" said Katie, confused.

"You call things it. Buckbeak isn't an it. He's a he."

"You talk about him like he's a person," Angelina noted.

"Isn't he?" shot back Harry.

The girls exchanged dubious looks, and Harry resisted the urge to laugh at them. He was just messing with them now, but he didn't want to be mean about it.

"He's an animal," Alicia said.

"Humans are just another type of animal," Angelina mentioned distractedly.

"The Ministry of Magic classifies Hippogriffs as an XXX rated beast," said Alicia, more to Angelina than to Harry.

"The Ministry of Magic likes to list everything off neatly and ordered, give them labels like beast or being according to arbitrary rules. That only works on paper," said Harry.

"But you can't be suggesting that Hippogriffs are the same as people!" exclaimed Alicia.

"They're definitely not the same as humans," said Harry. "But whether they're people? That's a different question altogether. All I know is that I looked into Buckbeak's eyes and saw him looking back at me, then we flew together across the lake and forest, and in that flight something passed between us that was deeper than conversation."

"They can't speak," reasoned Katie.

"They don't need to," responded Harry.

"And what other animals do you think might be people?" asked Angelina, sounding amused.

"Acromantula, for sure. The ones living in the Forbidden Forest can speak. The oldest one was about fifty. He understood family, friendship, and loyalty."

"There are Acromantula in the forest?" exclaimed Katie, looking excited.

"For about fifty years now, yeah," said Harry, amused by Katie's enthusiasm in comparison to the revulsion worn on the other girls' faces.

"As long as that oldest one has lived, then," said Angelina. "They were introduced on purpose?" she speculated, sounding aghast.

"I really shouldn't be telling you this," said Harry, knowing that he was going to, "but you know how Hagrid got expelled when he was at Hogwarts?"

Alicia nodded, but the others' faces remained blank.

"He'd been raising Aragog in a cupboard. Bringing him food, teaching him to speak. Eventually he got caught and a prefect chased Aragog off. He ran into the Forbidden Forest, and has lived there ever since."

"But how did a whole colony come from one Acromantula?" asked Katie.

"Aragog wasn't just Hagrid's pet. He was his friend. When Dumbledore let him stay on as the gamekeeper, he visited Aragog every so often. Social calls with an Acromantula, if you can imagine it!" Harry chuckled at the ludicrous idea, remembering how disastrously wrong his visit to Aragog's hollow had been. "So one day Aragog told Hagrid that he was alone, and wanted a mate. And Hagrid managed to smuggle a female Acromantula into the country. They have a family of hundreds, and the father of the family is Hagrid's oldest friend, except for Dumbledore."

"Family and friendship, like you said," said Katie. Harry was a bit wary about just how interested she seemed in the colony, and didn't want to risk her wandering off in search of friendly talking spiders.

"Yeah, but there's something else they understand. Food," he said, emphasising the word. "Guess which one they'll be thinking of if they see you?"

Katie snorted, but didn't seem put off by it. Alicia, however, had turned green.

"Way to go, Harry," scolded Angelina. "Terrify Alicia with tales of the giant man eating spiders that live near the school."

"Just trying to make sure nobody gets eaten because I told them the spiders can talk," Harry said, holding up his hands placatingly, but giving Katie a heavy stare. She smirked slightly, but didn't say anything.

"They didn't eat you," Katie said, after a few minutes of silence.

"I ran away," Harry said dryly. "I ran as far as I could. Because at least a hundred spiders bigger than me were behind me. And hungry."

"So does Hagrid bring snacks with him when he visits?" asked Katie. Harry wasn't sure if she was teasing him or fishing for ideas.

"Hagrid's friends with the patriarch of the colony, so they're not allowed to eat him. Anybody else is fair game. Trust me, Katie, an Acromantula can talk to you, but it won't. It'll eat you."

"If I get one on its own and it's not hungry, it might talk," she argued.

"I suppose," said Harry. "Or it might kill you and drag you back for its family."

Katie folded her arms in tightly, and had a determined set to her jaw that he'd only seen when she was chasing a Quaffle. Harry groaned.

"If you get yourself eaten because I told you about the Acromantula, your blood will be on my hands. I don't really want to deal with accusations of luring you into the forest and murdering you with a demon spider this year."

"I'll make sure I don't get eaten, then," she said. Harry sighed, and turned to the other girls.

"You girls make sure she doesn't wind up eaten by spiders, okay? I wash my hands of her and all responsibility of what she does," he declared dramatically. Alicia giggled.

"I doubt she'll do it," said Alicia. Harry wasn't convinced. He shared a glance with Angelina, and saw the same worry in her expression.

"Seriously, I don't have the time to patrol the edge of the forest this year, so stay out of the trees and out of the spiders' stomachs."

"What's got you so busy this year?" asked Angelina.

"It's supposed to be a secret, but Dumbledore will be making an announcement at dinner about it. You can wait that long to find out, I'm sure," said Harry.

"If we're going to find out anyway you may as well tell us now," said Katie, suddenly interested in the conversation again. "If he's making an announcement it's not just about you. It'll be something affecting the whole school."

"That's true," Harry conceded. "But somebody asked me not to tell, and I don't share my friends secrets. Even ones like this. You'll find out soon, anyway."

"At least give us a hint!" cried Alicia in exasperation.

Harry smiled, and gave in. He didn't much care for keeping secrets, and he had far too many under his belt already.

"Well I won't spoil the surprise, but I will tell you that the thing Dumbledore announces, why, it's going to be what I'm doing this year. It's going to be what I'm winning this year."

"Something to do with Quidditch?" guessed Angelina. Harry shook his head.

"No, not the Quidditch cup. I hate to break it to you, but Quidditch is cancelled this year."

"Dont be daft," said Alicia. Clearly none of the girls believed him. He gave a lazy shrug, and let them think what they wanted.

"Don't listen to me. Listen to Dumbledore. Especially on the subject of the Forbidden Forest. Have you ever noticed the way he tells students not to go in there? Every single year? Katie?"

Katie ignored Harry, but her lip was twitching as she fought a smile. He poked her in the side.

"Ring a bell, Katie Bell? Forbidden Forest? Spiders will eat you, Harry will go to Azkaban, and Sirius Black will have to go back to that horrible place to break him out," he continued.

"What? Sirius Black?" said Katie, her resolve to ignore him broken by the infamous namedrop.

"Who else would come break me out of Azkaban? He's the only one that's ever done it, so it'd have to be him who rescued me," argued Harry.

"Why would Sirius Black want to rescue you?" asked Katie.

"I don't want to stay in Azkaban. He doesn't want to stay in Azkaban. We've got a lot in common. Besides, I already told you I'm too busy to babysit you when you try to go spider hunting. Don't you think that means I'm too busy to go to Azkaban?"

"I'm not sure they take personal inconvenience into account when dragging murderers to the cells," Katie replied.

"And I wasn't talking about personal inconvenience. I'm going to be busy achieving glory, honour, and one thousand galleons. Cash. You can't get any of those at Azkaban, Katie. Ask a Dementor if you don't believe me."

"You're ludicrous," she declared.

"Says the girl with the spider fetish?"

"Hey!" she shouted, blushing and standing up at the same time, causing the carriage to rock. "I never even said I was going to try to find an Acromantula!"

"I nearly went deaf from how loudly you weren't saying it," Angelina muttered.

"Great, now there's two of you," grumbled Katie, and flopped down in her seat. "I'm hungry. Why is this carriage taking so long?"

"Quit whining," said Angeline. "We must be almost there." She paused, and looked around. "No. We've stopped. Why have we stopped? Harry, are the -"

"Thestrals?" interrupted Harry, a step ahead of her. "Yeah, they're still here, wearing the harnesses. But they look nervous.

Alicia looked at the looming trees of the forest, only a short distance away. Harry stood up to get his bearings, and found that they were within the grounds, where the path ventured close to the forest in order to wind its way uphill.

"You don't think that it could be Acromantula, do you?" she said nervously. "I know it sounds silly, but you were just talking about them, and now the carriage has stopped somehow. Something's made the Thestrals nervous, Harry?" she asked, a nervous tremor in her voice.

"The colony lives much deeper in. And they'd have attacked us by now."

"So what is it?" demanded Katie. Harry gave her an appraising look. When Alicia had gotten scared, Katie had become angry. That was good. Fear held you back. Anger pushed you forward. Made you act. Sometimes you had to act quickly or die, with no room for hesitation.

But Harry knew this wasn't one of those situations. None of them had noticed when the carriage had stopped, which meant that they might have been here for several minutes. Fear was no good, either. But this wasn't the place for anger, leaping at shadows. No, this situation called for caution.

Harry glanced quickly over the bare hillside, then scanned the treeline with more focus. It took him a long time, but finally he saw one of them. A centaur, longbow aimed directly at him. An arrow was set against the string, but the centaur hadn't pulled it taut to fire. This wasn't an attack. It was a precaution.

He gestured for the girls to stay in the carriage, and climbed out himself, walking until he was mid-way between the carriage and the forest.

"I told you to find me when the school term began, but you're a little early. The term doesn't start properly until tomorrow."

Something rustled in the trees, like a too-long cloak being dragged over dry leaves, and then centaurs began to appear. The girls gasped from inside the carriage at their sudden appearance. Harry hoped that they had the sense to stay still and silent while he maneuvered this delicate situation.

Finally, Firenze appeared. He trotted out from the trees to meet Harry, stopping only metres away. Harry noticed that Firenze now sported an eyepatch, and there was a great deal of swelling around the eye socket. He felt bad for any pain he'd caused the centaur, but pushed the sympathy aside lest it cloud his judgement. If things went wrong, he knew he'd need a clear head.

"Firenze," Harry said, lowering his head in the half-bow that centaurs performed.

"Harry Potter," replied the centaur.

They said nothing else. Harry was all too aware of the girls fidgeting and whispering in the carriage, but this was his test, not theirs. Centaurs value patience. He had to demonstrate it. Or, at least, refrain from showing how sorely he lacked it.

He waited. Firenze waited. The ring of centaurs held their bows in place, but did not loose any arrows.

"You agreed to an equal trade," stated Firenze.

"I did," agreed Harry.

"You carried out the bargain in good faith," said Firenze, speaking in an odd monotone.

"I did."

"You returned the Sight to my people."

"I did."

"To all of our people, not to I alone."

"I did."

"This was not a fair bargain, Harry Potter," said Firenze in that same, strangely flat voice.

What? Harry hadn't expected that, of all things. He'd kept to his part of the deal. But the centaurs would have simply killed him if they thought he'd broken faith with them. He tensed, but knew that something unexpected was happening here.

"After you took my eye, a sickness took its place. Infection. Fever. I was near death. But I could see the stars. As you promised. Our bargain held true. Whether I lived or died was of no matter to our bargain. The ordeal was mine to pass or fail. You gave the Sight back to me, as was promised."

"I am sorry for your suffering, if it's any consolation," said Harry. "I didn't wish to cause you pain. But taking your eye was necessary. If I had done it differently, perhaps I could have lessened your wound, and the risk to you."

"My ordeal was part of our bargain, invoked by the Old Laws you called into use. It was no doing of yours, Harry Potter. But still, our bargain was not fair."

"It was agreed upon," said Harry, trying to keep all emotion out of his voice. He had no idea what more the centaurs could want from him. They had no interest in wizards, only their lands and their stars.

"It was agreed upon in haste. An unfair bargain was struck. One which I have come before you to make right. We are centaurs. We honour our pacts."

Harry was beginning to feel incredibly nervous, but didn't dare reach for his wand. That was one sure-fire way of becoming a pincushion.

"We both agreed to the terms set," said Harry resolutely. "We have both kept to them. You have no quarrel with me, Firenze."

Harry prepared to draw his wand, already planning his escape. With a strong enough lumos, he'd be able to blind the centaur's sensitive eyes for a moment, and strip them of their night vision. In that distraction he could get to the carriage and use it for cover. After that...it was all going to be hope and hell until either he or the centaurs were dead.

"Indeed," said Firenze, stunning Harry. Harry was struck still by confusion, but also by the huge wave of relief that he hadn't reached for his wand yet and turned things aggressive.

"I am the one who has wronged you, Harry Potter. An unfair bargain was struck. Sight for sight, yes, but the sight of one was given to you, and you returned to us the sight of many. We must make even this debt," said Firenze, his voice rumbling with a deep insistence that reminded Harry of just how not-human the person he was talking to was. They lived their lives by different rules. Harsher ones.

"I chose the terms. Your eye for the eyes of all your people."

"It would be fair if all who took part in your gift were to pay the sacrifice," said Firenze, implacable. "If you agree, we will bring you an eye from every member of our clan by dusk tomorrow. And thus our debt shall be paid."

"No," said Harry, his anger beginning to rise despite his efforts to hold it down. "You will not mutilate your own people for this."

"It is a matter of honour, Harry Potter."

"It was a matter of trade! I offered the Sight freely to all others. To change the terms of our bargain and attempt to inflict what you have suffered upon your tribe would be dishonourable. More than that, it would render our bargain null and void."

"The bargain was not fair, Harry Potter," repeated Firenze. But this time, his flat voice held some emotion in it. One Harry recognised. Hope. "We gained far more from our bargain than we lost to you. In my heart I should have known, but we were so lost, and so eager to find our way again. You offered us the heavens when our eyes had turned against us. In my zeal to heal our people, I made a judgement in haste. In error. Our laws demand that we redress this slight against you."

"It will not be this way," stated Harry. "Whatever debt your people feel they owe will not be paid by repeating the sacrifice you made."

"It is our way. Sight for sight. One for one. Balance in all things."

"This isn't a matter of numbers. Your sacrifice had purpose. Meaning. If you mutilated others in a vain attempt to replicate it, there would be no meaning. You would add profanity to insult."

"We must complete the bargain!" roared Firenze, rearing onto his hind legs, and crashing down onto the earth. "I have no wish to carve the eye from every centaur and foal among us, but the Old Laws are absolute. This is the price I must pay for my mistake. For cheating you!"

Harry wished he could bash his head against a rock. Fucking centaurs. They were infuriating, implacable, and almost as stubborn as he was.

"If you are insistent, I will accept your debt," Harry said in a quiet voice. "But the debt will not be settled by harming others who had no part in our bargain. I will count any attempts to bribe me with severed centaur eyes as an insult, in violation of a trade agreed upon by both parties. It will only further your debt to me if you harm your own people."

"This - this cannot be allowed. The debt must be paid. I am grateful that you would save my people pain, Harry Potter, but there is no alternative."

"I do not wish to harm my kin," Firenze said quietly. "The Old Laws offer no mercy. And I made a mistake."

"If a debt must be paid, it must be paid. But you will not repay me by acting in this fashion. The Old Laws are absolute to centaurs. You cannot defy them. But neither will you defy me. Find. Another. Way."

"How?" asked Firenze

"Your sacrifice was an eye. A symbol of the Sight. One to represent all."

"Yes," agreed Firenze.

"You paid the debt for your tribe, Firenze. It was not a matter of viscera and blood. It was a symbol."

Firenze stood stock-still, face utterly blank.

"The Old Laws...will allow this. And yet I am still in your debt, Harry Potter. A new debt. For in solving this matter, you have given great aid to my people, and saved us from a grave harm."

"A self-inflicted one!" Harry cried. "I hold no responsibility over that. You owe me nothing."

"Yes I do, Harry Potter. I owe you the salvation of your people. And that is a heavy debt."

"I can't see how you plan to pull that one off," Harry muttered, sick of dealing with this infernal centaur.

"This debt gives me purpose. Meaning. It is so strong that it has unwoven the thread of my fate and set it against yours. I am bound to you until your fate has unravelled. The fate you have created for yourself."

"You are infuriating," stated Harry.

"I am simply accepting what must be, as is spoken in the Old Laws, as is drawn in the stars."

"Two minutes ago you had accepted a different fate. Are all centaurs so fickle as you are?"

There was a hiss of indrawn breath at the insult, and all the centaurs stepped forward, arms straining to hold back their bowstrings.

"No!" commanded Firenze, and the centaurs lowered their weapons.

"You understand how grave an insult that is. I see it in you. Why taunt me now?" asked Firenze, curious.

"I was rather hoping it'd encourage you to go away," Harry muttered.

Firenze smiled, and placed a large hand on Harry's shoulder.

"You do not understand what you have done tonight. But you will. In time."

"Go back to your people, Firenze."

"Our paths will cross again soon, Harry Potter."

"Is it written in the sky?" snarled Harry. To his surprise, Firenze chuckled.

"No. I will come and find you."

Harry wanted nothing more than to hex the departing centaur in the back, but he held himself in check, and collapsed onto a seat in the carriage.

"Harry..what was that?" whispered Alicia.

"Centaurs are all idiots," Harry groaned. "Were you listening?"

"We all were," replied Angelina. "But none of us had a clue what you were talking about.

"Centaurs are stubborn beyond belief. They thought they owed me something when they didn't. I had to talk them out of doing something really stupid and unnecessary."

"Cutting out their eyes?" Katie said, her voice oddly pitched.

"Yeah," Harry said, giving her a curious look, and wondering what it was in her voice that he wasn't hearing.

"Why would they think they owed you their eyes?" gasped Alicia.

Harry groaned, and thumped his head on the side of the carriage.

"It's all because they don't understand metaphors. Or allegory. I forget which. Probably both. They're literal to the point of being livestock, all because of those damned Old Laws they follow."

"I've heard about those," said Angelina, a dark look in her eyes.

"Yeah. A lot of nasty stories have come up through misunderstandings over the years. But it's not a set of rules. It's their magic, compelling them to act a certain way. Like house elves - and yet so much not like house elves. Ever see an elf punish itself by breaking its fingers or burning its hands?" asked Harry. The girls shuddered, but all knew what he meant.

"With centaurs it's similar, but so much more complicated. Swap out housework for honour, add in a predilection towards moongazing and violence with no middle ground, and a few horse bits, then you've got yourself a centaur." Harry buried his head in his hands.

"I just wanted a treacle tart before anyone started pointing weapons at me and swearing life debts."

Angelina laughed, but Katie frowned.

"Was that what he meant, by the last thing he said? He owes you a life debt?"

Harry took his head out of his hands and looked up at her.

"Honestly? I haven't a fucking clue. I got him to stop his tribe from mutilating themselves by making up some bullshit on the spot, and somehow it worked.

"So," began Katie, looking at Harry with a vicious smile. "Which ones are more human, centaurs or Acromantula?"

Harry groaned.

"Probably the Acromantula. Less complicated. All they do is kill, eat, and fuck." I can handle that."

"Sounds like a good life," added Katie. Alicia looked mortified, but Angelina laughed. Harry just lay slumped in a heap.

He worked up the energy to sit up, and moved over to where he could give the Thestrals a hard thwack across their hindquarters. It got them moving again, although they were so bony that it left his hand bruised and aching. Pushing the pain aside, and pretending that he'd never met a centaur, Harry wondered how late they were going to be. He was going to commit some severe property damage and minor arson if they'd missed the feast. Maybe in the direction of the kitchens, he added as an afterthought as his stomach rumbled.

 _A/N: Okay, so I wasn't entirely honest. We're at Hogwarts, but not in there just yet. Definite thing for the next chapter, though. They're practically at the door. What could go wrong?_


	7. Chapter 7

_A/N: Chapter Eight is going to mark a distinct increase in the pace now that we're all settled and the pieces are all ready to play. Thanks to everyone who's reading and reviewing._

Harry tried his best to keep himself from reaching for his wand when a Death Eater appeared in the Entrance Hall, but the Death Eater noticed, and smirked.

"Good reflexes, Potter, but keep that wand away or I'll take it from you," barked Crouch Junior, Polyjuiced into Mad-Eye's body. Harry shivered, and wished he could blast Crouch apart, but resisted the urge. It was only the fact that he was going to do it very soon anyway that gave him the self-restraint to prevent himself from attacking Crouch.

"That's Mad-Eye Moody," whispered Katie in awe. "He's fought more Dark wizards than anyone else alive!"

Her voice was so low that Angelina and Alicia couldn't hear her as she whispered to Harry, but Moody's eyes narrowed at her words.

"Aye, I have. Alastor Moody, ex-Auror, and your new Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher," said Crouch, introducing himself. Harry grimaced. How had he heard Katie? Was it another enchantment on the eye, a spell, or just really good hearing? It worried him for a moment, but left him feeling grateful that he wasn't planning on ambushing Crouch, but rather attacking him in public. There was no chance of getting caught sneaking up on him.

"As a teacher, I suppose I should be asking you why you're not with the rest of the students. But as a former Auror, I'm much more interested in what you did to warrant a centaur attack on Hogwarts students."

"They only wanted to talk," said Harry flippantly. Angelina snorted.

"With longbows pointed at us," she muttered.

"And I'm even more curious about that. Any wizard quick with his wand could blast apart a few horse-men, but you used diplomacy," said Crouch. It was subtle, but Harry caught the undertones of disgust at the word diplomacy and smiled. Crouch's disguise wasn't so perfect after all - or perhaps Crouch and Moody just had a fondness for violence in common.

"Mark me, Potter, we'll have words about this," said Crouch. Harry resisted the urge to roll his eyes. "But not now. You're late for the feast, and so am I. I've had a long journey." Crouch paused, pulled out a silver hip-flask, and took a long swig, grimacing at the taste. "In," he demanded, pointing at the Great Hall.

Huh. So here was a change. Last time, Moody had slunk in through a back door. Now he was going to parade Harry and his unwitting companions through the middle of the aisles, in full view of all of Hogwarts. Harry supposed that Crouch knew how much younger Harry had hated attention, and was doing it out of spite. He grinned.

Crouch marched ahead of them, pushing open the ancient double-doors. Of course he opened both of them. Maximum attention. Crouch may have been a despicable worm, but he was a talented actor, and knew his showmanship.

Harry strode nonchalantly behind him, utterly unfazed by the stares. He glanced back at the girls.

Angelina was holding her head high, trying to look unfazed. It was the same look he'd seen on her face during a particularly harrowing Quidditch match. Alicia appeared to be wilting, and Katie was still staring, enraptured, at Crouch. Well, at Mad-Eye Moody, so far as she knew.

Having a fascination with a crazy living legend was much better than Acromantula. Maybe she was just into weird and dangerous stuff. Harry hoped that was a sign that she would be distracted enough by the events of the school year to stop her from hunting an Acromantula, but he knew his life had never been that easy.

After a minute or so, they had reached the head table. For his younger self that would have been a walk of shame, lasting an eternity. Now, Harry drank up the stares and whispers. He could barely make out the comments, but got the gist. Who's the crazy guy? Why does Harry look different? Why has he changed his minions?

Okay, Harry didn't hear that one, but he wouldn't be surprised if someone in the room was wondering why it wasn't Ron and Hermione tagging along behind him - the usual victims of being too close to Harry when the shit hits the fan.

"Alastor, you really should have taken them to another room," scolded McGonagall, too quietly for any of the students to hear. "No need to embarrass them for whatever nonsense Potter's done now. A detention would have sufficed." Her quick glance at the Chasers of her favourite Quidditch team made it clear who she was speaking about.

"Their carriage got delayed," said Crouch honestly. "No sense in them missing their Welcoming Feast. You only get one a year, and it was hardly their fault."

Harry laughed as quietly as he could. It was clear that both Crouch and McGonagall were speaking about the Chasers, and were sure that it was Harry's fault. Even though it wasn't entirely his fault this time, he couldn't blame them. It fit the pattern. McGonagall's glare silenced his laughter as quickly as it began.

Dumbledore got to his feet.

Immediately the low hubbub of whispering ceased. Even McGonagall and Crouch looked away from each other to listen to the Headmaster.

"It seems that our new Defence Against the Dark Arts Professor's tardiness has helped gather up some of our wayward students," said Dumbledore. "Allow me to introduce Alastor Moody, an old friend of mine who has graciously agreed to to fill the role after our dear Professor Lupin's departure."

Some snickering came from the Slytherin table at those words. Harry narrowed his eyebrows, remembering who's 'concerned parents' had been the ones to send Lupin packing. Although he didn't deny that there were probably students in other houses whose parents hadn't wanted a werewolf in Hogwarts.

"And as this year's Sorting Hat song was unusually long, our lost Gryffindors can still enjoy some delicious Hogwarts food. Although I recommend you eat quickly, to make up for lost time," said the Headmaster. It was as good as a dismissal, and the gesture towards the Gryffindor table made his intentions even clearer.

The girls were a bit slower on the uptake, but Harry was used to Dumbledore, and caught the obvious hint. He headed over to the table, and they followed closely behind.

"I do have more to say to you all," said Dumbledore, in a voice of wry amusement, "but I shall save the speeches for when our stomachs are full. It would be awfully rude to interrupt dinner further, after all," he said, giving an innocent but telling look towards Crouch.

Someone in the back of the hall giggled at the sight of a scarred monstrosity suddenly looking abashed upon a school-teacher telling him off. Harry wondered whether that was faked or not. Crouch had gone to Hogwarts, after all. Dumbledore had taught just about all of the teaching staff at some point. The teacher's teacher. Heh. Harry liked that idea.

Dumbledore sat, with Crouch following soon after, elbowing Professor Flitwick aside to steal a seat beside the Headmaster.

Harry took this time to find a space at the Gryffindor table. While he'd been watching the proceedings, the Chasers had found a space on the benches. Or made one. He hadn't been watching. He squeezed in next to Katie.

"Quite an entrance, Harry," said Colin Creevey. Harry groaned, and hung his head in his hands. He hadn't checked who was sitting on her other side.

"Well, you know me," Harry said, as if that explained everything.

"Yeah," said Colin, and laughed. Apparently it did. Well, that was useful. Hogwarts had gotten used to Harry Potter doing weird things. It would make it a lot easier for them to cope with the storm he was going to set brewing.

"I read _all_ the articles about your accident!" Colin exclaimed. Harry shuddered. Of course his number one fan would have kept up with the tabloids on his favourite celebrity. "They didn't say much, just that you were in a magical accident. And Rita Skeeter keeps speculating about the Department of Mysteries and Time Turners. Is that why you look older?"

Harry snorted. For once, Colin's utter lack of tact was going to work for him. The whole table was pretending not to listen, which meant that they were going to hang on his every word.

"I really am older, actually. I'm seventeen now."

"No way!" exclaimed Colin excitedly. There were snorts of disbelief further along the table, but Colin's shout had been pure enthusiasm. "That's so cool!"

"Bullshit," muttered a fifth year Harry couldn't put a name to. He was sure that a lot of others shared the same sentiment, but he couldn't care less. He didn't need people to believe him, even if it was true. He just needed the suggestion and doubt to spread. It would make other people off balance, and leave him free to act while the rest of the Wizarding World tried to catch up.

Harry ignored them to eat, but he'd only managed to stuff a few forks of mashed potato into his mouth before Colin started up again.

"How did it happen?" he asked.

"I don't really remember most of my summer. Just waking up at St Mungo's. The Unspeakables said I'm not allowed to speak about what happened in case anyone tries to copy it, but I don't even know what it was," Harry lied smoothly.

"What are Unspeakables?"

"They work in the Department of Mysteries," cut in Katie. "They study strange magic. Things like mind magic, death, love, and time," she said, giving Harry a long look at the last word.

"All I know is that Unspeakable Croaker is a pain in the arse," grumbled Harry.

He fended off other questions with variations on "I don't remember" or "I hate hospitals." It worked for a while.

"So why were you late? I've never seen a carriage stop before!"

Harry winced, both at Colin's shrill tones of enthusiasm and at the question itself.

"The invisible horse pulling it got spooked by something in the Forest and stopped moving for a while," he said, honestly, although omitting certain details.

"We were attacked by centaurs!" said Katie in glee.

Harry thumped himself in the head, and groaned. Damn you, woman.

"They just wanted to talk," he claimed, raising his palms in a gesture to indicate 'stop'.

"With longbows?" interrupted Angelina snippily. Oh, great. Now that the shock had worn off, it was looking like she was annoyed.

"They're centaurs! They always carry longbows!" Harry cried in exasperation.

"What did they want to talk about?" asked Colin. Harry wrapped his hand around Katie's mouth before she could blurt out any more awkward details.

"It was just a misunderstanding," bit out Harry, looking at Katie instead of Colin. She glared at him, and Harry glared right back. The other Chasers wisely kept their mouths full of food, and didn't involve themselves.

"So I see you made Quidditch Captain, Angie," said Harry, pointing at the badge on her robes. She smiled at him, the earlier shade of anger gone.

"Yeah! I've got big plans for us this year. We'll need to do some recruiting, but I bet we can hammer the other houses into the ground." She paused, looking worried. "Will your - uh - changes be a problem? Have you flown since it happened? It could really throw off your balance."

"We'll just practice extra hard," Harry promised.

"Not as hard as Wood made us," grumbled Alicia. Angelina laughed.

"I promise no drills at dawn in the rain," she said. "So long as you guys give it your best shot."

"Isn't that the Beaters' job?" quipped Harry.

Angelina threw a bread roll at him. He ducked, and it hit Colin square in the face. Harry grinned. It was good to be back at Hogwarts. And it'd only get even more fun once things started to get messy. He felt a little guilty for mentioning Quidditch, given that the Tournament took precedent, but it was the one tried-and-tested conversation stopper and starter that worked on any witch or wizard save Hermione.

Talk of Quidditch filled the rest of the meal, and Harry largely zoned out through Dumbledore's speech, having already heard it before.

But then came the words he'd been waiting for.

"Only students who are of age - that is to say, seventeen years or older - will be allowed to put forward their names for consideration," continued Dumbledore. He was definitely looking at Harry when he said that. And he wasn't the only one. Harry winked at Dumbledore, and was slightly surprised when the Headmaster winked back.

The Great Hall was full of complaints about how unfair the restriction was, but Harry's little corner of the Gryffindor Table was oddly silent.

"You're seventeen, Angie! Are you going to enter your name?" asked Alicia, bubbly and excited.

"Yes," she said, a grim set to her jaw. She looked determined and as sure of herself as Harry had ever seen, even with the slight quiver at the edge of her mouth revealing how nervous she was.

Well, best to get it out of the way sooner rather than later.

"So-" began Harry, only to be interrupted by Colin.

"Are you going to as well, Harry? You did say that you were seventeen!" Way to steal my crowning moment of glory, thought Harry, good-naturedly elbowing Colin.

"I was just about to say that, yes," said Harry dryly.

"Didn't you hear Dumbledore, Potter?" demanded the fifth year who'd called bullshit earlier. "Seventeen or over. I don't care if you brewed up some growth potions, you're not overage."

"I guess we'll find out when I get chosen as the Champion for Hogwarts, won't we?" said Harry quietly. The other boy snorted.

"Well? Harry challenged. "I get chosen, you'll take that as proof. What's your name, anyway?"

"Fine,"snapped the other boy. "Cormac McLaggen."

"Oh," said Harry, remembering who he was. "Hey Angie, this is our new Keeper."

He immediately regretted his words as everybody within earshot turned a fierce glare on him.

"Weren't you listening, Potter?" snapped Angelina. "The Quidditch Cup is cancelled."

"I wasn't, actually," he said mildly. That only seemed to raise her ire further, and he saw her reach into a pocket. There was definitely a wand in there.

"But we can still practice for next year, right? And just because there's no Cup doesn't mean we can't have a few games. I bet Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff would be happy to keep in shape with a few practice games against us," said Harry quickly.

"And we don't need to invite Slytherin," mused Katie. Now that caught Angelina's attention. Harry grinned.

"So what do you say?" he asked.

"It could work," she said. "And if it's unofficial, we don't need to stick to one game against each house. We can play actual games for practice instead of running drills all the time. It'll be a lot better for us - and them," she added at the end, as a sour note.

"We'll still be the best team," Harry argued. "This will just guarantee that Slytherin loses every match no matter how much they cheat." Smiles all around showed he had won the argument. Beating Slytherin at Quidditch was the one matter which could bring anyone together.

The funny thing was that Harry actually wanted to play Quidditch. He missed the game. Flying in combat was exhilarating, but not the same. He wagered the experience of dodging aerial killing curses would help his performance, too. And it'd be nice to have something innocent like this to turn to in-between his more important work.

"Alright," said Angelina at last. "But McLaggen has to try out for Keeper. I've never even seen him fly."

"Neither have you," added McLaggen, giving Harry a curious look.

"What can I say? I've got good instinct for Quidditch," said Harry. "You've got the build of a Keeper, and something tells me you can handle a broom."

McLaggen shrugged.

"I was going to try out anyway," he said. "But you're weird, Potter."

Harry grinned.

"We can have a practice tomorrow evening to test McLaggen and work off this feast," said Angelina. "I want us to have a head start working together before we invite the other teams to play against us."

Harry thought it was a little odd how their plans for underground Quidditch games had so completely taken over any thoughts of the Triwizard Tournament. From the heady buzz around the room, it was all anyone else was talking about. But soon enough, Dumbledore called an end to the festivities, and sent everyone off to their dormitories.

McLaggen walked with Harry up to the tower, surprisingly enough.

"That was a good idea, Potter. And thanks for calling me out as Keeper. I won't disappoint. But you knew that, didn't you?" he said, cocksure of his abilities, but still unsettled by how readily Harry had picked up on them.

"What can I say? You look like you spend a lot of time with your head in the air," murmured Harry.

"Hey!" exclaimed McLaggen. Harry chuckled.

"Don't make me look bad for suggesting you," Harry warned. "You might be good, but don't get sloppy. Give it everything you have tomorrow. Don't just prove you can catch a Quaffle. Try to impress the team."

"I can do that," said McLaggen dismissively.

"You'll have to. We've flown together for years. We know each other. You're new. Make the right first impression, and that'll help us become a team instead of a bunch of people playing with different types of balls."

"Fred and George know me well enough," said McLaggen.

"Fly well enough and you might be able to undo that damage, then," added Harry wryly.

"You're a dick, Potter."

"So are you," Harry retorted. McLaggen was quiet for a moment.

"You've changed," he said. "I never paid much attention to the quiet little brat who got all the attention and occasionally did something insane. Aside from the times you were up to crazy shit, you were just too meek to be interesting."

"I grew up," said Harry ironically.

"Into a dick," added McLaggen.

"Into a Champion," said Harry, sarcastically this time, but it caught McLaggen's interest.

"So you were serious about entering? I would have myself if I could, but Merlin's balls, Potter, it's a dangerous thing, this tournament. Even if they let you in because you look seventeen, you've had three years of learning magic. Three!"

"That's the same number of times I've faced Voldemort and beaten him, McLaggen," said Harry. "And that's just up until this summer. Imagine how many times I might defeat him by the time I'm thirty?"

"Three?"

"So far," said Harry.

"I only know of two. What's the last one?"

Harry stared.

"You're only supposed to know about one. Which other one did you find out about? And how?" he demanded.

"The Boy Who Lived. That's the obvious one, right? Then you killed a Basilisk and defeated the Heir of Slytherin. The Dark Lord was possessing the Weasley girl, right?"

"Yes," said Harry, suddenly feeling out of his depth. How many people knew about that? How many people knew Voldemort was still around, and yet had supported Fudge's campaign of denial? "How did you know?"

"Dumbledore always said the Dark Lord was still around. He's the only Heir of Slytherin I've ever heard about."

"Not many people believe Dumbledore," said Harry.

"Uncle Tiberius does. My Dad believes Uncle Tiberius. He can't be a ghost if he can do things like that, so he must be some kind of wraith, right? That was Uncle Tiberius' guess."

"Yes," said Harry, more than a little stunned. "How come more people don't know this, then? I know your uncle is high up in the Ministry."

"They don't hear what they don't want to hear, Potter. People don't like thinking about things they don't like. Surely you've noticed that by now," said McLaggen.

"Yeah," said Harry. "I've noticed. Fuck. I never expected to run into someone else who knew he was around."

Cormac snorted.

"The people in the know tend not to talk about it. It's somewhere between impolite and 'you're fired' for spreading malicious rumours."

"Figures," muttered Harry. "I had no idea that the censorship started this early."

"What?" asked Cormac sharply.

"Nevermind me," said Harry quickly, covering his slip. "You wanted to know the third time? It was actually the second. Voldemort was possessing Quirrell."

"Quirrell?" exclaimed Cormac. "Guess that explains what he was constantly terrified of, then. I can't believe you killed a teacher in your first year, though," he added, before laughing.

"Voldemort killed him as soon as he possessed him," said Harry darkly.

"The Dark Lord stole his body, but you killed him, Potter. Oh, don't give me that look. He was your enemy. Would have killed you, I'm betting. Killing him was the only sensible thing you could have done," said McLaggen offhandedly. The nonchalance with which he accepted Harry killing Quirrell was unsettling, and drew attention to another thing which had been niggling at Harry's attention.

"You call him the Dark Lord," Harry said.

"So? Nobody says his name."

"People say You-Know-Who, or He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named," said Harry. "Only his followers call him the Dark Lord."

"McLaggens respect power, but we've never had a Death Eater in the family, if that's what you're getting at," said Cormac accusingly.

"Then why do you call him that?" Harry demanded.

"You-Know-Who? Are you serious? It's so juvenile. Fearful. He's a Dark Lord. Call him what he is. Doesn't mean you agree with it. A Dementor's a Dementor. The Dark Lord is a Dark Lord. Just because we can't say his name in polite company doesn't mean we're going to stoop to these pathetic nicknames."

Harry gave McLaggen an assessing look. The boy was as cocky as he'd thought, sure, and every bit as arrogant as he remembered. But more than arrogant, he was proud. In a way Malfoy could never understand.

"You're going to be refreshing company at practice," Harry mused.

"Balderdash," said Cormac.

The portrait of the Fat Lady swung open. Harry laughed out loud. That had been one of the more memorable of the Gryffindor passwords.

Cormac paused before climbing into the Common Room.

"You know, I'm a fair hand at offensive spellwork. I could show you a few things. Help you survive the Tournament." Harry grinned. Mclaggen hadn't said it aloud, but there was no doubt. He was beginning to believe in Harry.

"I'm sure I'm going to be just fine," he said. "But thanks for the offer. I might take you up on it - in a way."

"Oh?"

"This is your OWL year, right?" asked Harry. Cormac nodded.

"Mine too. Seventeen. Probably won't be able to stay any longer. So I'm going to be taking them with your year. If I pass my OWLs, I get to keep my wand when I leave Hogwarts."

"Study group and Quidditch practices it is, then, Potter."

"Call me Harry," said Harry.

"What, are we friends all of a sudden," said Cormac, putting on a sudden sneer.

"Looks that way," said Harry. The sneer immediately vanished.

"So it does," replied Cormac, and held out his hand. Reluctantly, Harry took it, only to be subjected to the most pompous handshake he'd ever had from a teenager. "See you at practice, Harry."

Harry was the first one to enter his dorm. He looked around the room which had held so many memories and smiled fondly. He wouldn't be staying here all the time, but it really did feel like coming home.

He flopped on his bed and stretched out, closing his eyes contentedly. Despite a few weird hiccups in the day, things were moving on schedule. Nothing looked to interfere with his plans. In fact, this might make things work out better in the long-term for him. And Harry was playing the long-game here. He hadn't come back to stop Voldemort's resurrection. He'd come back to make the war possible to win. McLaggen could be a useful ally, and the development with the centaurs was...interesting.

"Hoot."

Hedwig startled him from his thoughts.

"Hello girl," he said softly, sitting up and stroking her feathers. "I suppose one of the elves brought you up from the pub?"

Hedwig hooted in affirmation, and then began to nibble Harry's fingers affectionately.

"Probably Dobby," Harry mused.

Hewig gave him an inscrutable look, which Harry interpreted as a yes. No owl deserved to be subjected to that mad elf. He gave her an Owl Treat, and apologised wordlessly for her troubles by burying his face in her feathers. She nuzzled back into him.

Sirius could keep his Hippogriff familiar. Hedwig was the only familiar for Harry.

The familiar bond was poorly understood and hardly studied, yet it was an ancient part of Wizarding customs. Harry supposed that owl and cats had become the most common familiars because of their usefulness - cats in killing rats, and owls in delivering post. Proximity and magic caused something to form between a witch or wizard and an animal, letting them find and understand one another more easily. That was about as much as Harry understood it. He wondered if there was anything deeper to it, but guessed that it was probably just what it looked like on the surface.

All he knew for sure was that he'd never care for a pet the way he cared for Hedwig. She was family.

Soon their peace was interrupted by the rest of the fourth-year Gryffindors climbing the stairs. Harry wondered what their reaction would be. It'd be interesting to see, if nothing else.

"Harry! called Neville, the first to reach the room.

"Hey Neville," said Harry. "How was your summer?"

"It was alright," he said brightly. "I got to visit my parents just before I came back to Hogwarts." He flinched after saying that. Harry didn't comment, and none of the others, barrelling in from behind Neville, even noticed.

Dean and Seamus immediately went for their beds, and the others weren't far behind them in changing into their pyjamas.

"Shame you couldn't stay with us for the rest of the summer," said Ron. This time it was Harry who flinched. Yeah, there was definitely an edge of bitterness there.

"At least I got to go to the cup with you guys. And Padfoot," he added.

"I can't believe they let you bring a dog into the Top Box," Ron muttered in exasperation. And then he looked up at Harry sharply. "Did you know they think it was Sirius Black who cast the Dark Mark at the World Cup?"

Harry winced.

"No. Figures they'd blame him for anything bad that happens, though," he said.

"The DMLE has been going crazy looking for him, Dad says. They're increasing their resources back to the level when he first escaped. He might get caught this time." Oh, realised Harry. Ron was angry with him for risking Sirius. He imagined that Hermione had been lecturing him on all the terrible things which could have happened had anyone uncovered him.

"Are they bringing the Dementors back?" asked Harry, shivering at the thought, and grateful for the knowledge of the future which told him that they wouldn't. Surely he'd made no changes that would have caused that.

"I hope not," muttered Ron. "They're mostly looking for him abroad now. Egypt is getting really riled up about Hit Wizards intruding on their land looking for him."

"I hadn't heard it was Black," said Neville, curiously. "Before there were posters everywhere and articles in the Prophet."

Something clicked in Harry's brain. His talk with Fudge must have struck a chord.

"It'll be to do with the Tournament, I bet," suggested Harry. "They don't want to look bad in front of foreign wizards."

Ron snorted.

"Yeah, that sounds right. They're all about British Wizarding Traditions and national pride. It drives Dad nuts."

"I thought that was Fred and George's job?" teased Harry.

"Only if they figure out how to get into the Triwizard Tournament," said Ron. "Think they'd tell me if they found a way? Imagine that - a thousand galleons," he muttered dreamily.

"Even if they managed to enter their names, they wouldn't get chosen."

"Who d'you reckon it'll be?" asked Neville.

"Me, of course," said Harry.

Ron sat bolt upright, giving him a suspicious look.

"All that talk about you being overage…" he trailed off.

"Yup," said Harry succinctly, and tensed for Ron's reaction. A big part of Ron's actions the first time had been jealousy, but it had also been because he thought Harry had done it without telling him. It was the exclusion which had made things worse. Harry hoped to ease things a bit by being honest about it from the start this time.

"Hermione said that anyone who enters might die," said Ron slowly.

"Bet you a thousand galleons that I survive?" Harry offered. Ron choked back a laugh, but finally nodded.

"Deal. If you win, I get the thousand galleons," he said, before his laughter got the better of him at the ridiculous notion. He clearly didn't expect Harry to be able to enter, let alone enter, compete, and win.

Harry just wondered if Ron's refusal to accept charity would extend to this bet. A thousand galleon bribe to keep Ron friendly during the Tournament against his hatred of Harry buying things for him. Well, it wasn't charity. It was a bet. Fair's fair. Harry grinned. Gotcha, he thought.

Soon they were all asleep. Harry's dreams were full of delightful schemes and accidentally-on-purpose homicide.

In the morning, McGonagall handed out their class timetables at breakfast. Harry glanced at it once, and felt the familiar memories slide into place. Herbology with the Hufflepuffs first, followed by Care of Magical Creatures.

"I won't be in Herbology," he said to Ron, interrupting his friend's complaints about Double Potions. "Have to meet Dumbledore about my accident. But I'll see you and Hagrid in Care of Magical Creatures."

"And you'll see The Beyond in Double Divination after lunch," said Ron with a groan, buying Harry's blatant lie.

"Maybe I'll predict being kidnapped, then leg it when Trelawney isn't looking," Harry suggested. "Top marks for an accurate prediction, and I bet I can do it in five minutes, tops."

"Can you predict us both being kidnapped?" asked Ron petulantly.

"I guess I'll bring my Invisibility Cloak to class," said Harry. Ron immediately perked up.

"Seriously?"

"What's the worst that could happen? A detention? Worth it to get out of Double Divination, right?" offered Harry. Ron flashed him a grin.

"You are NOT skipping class on the first day, Harry!" insisted Hermione, slamming her books down beside his plate.

"Good morning to you to," he said in an amused tone. "But I really do have to see Dumbledore during Herbology, although I can walk with you as far as the Greenhouses."

"You know that's not what I meant!" cried Hermione in exasperation.

"Just following your example in how to behave in Divination lessons, Hermione," reminded Harry. She turned pink at the reminder, and muttered under her breath.

"You still shouldn't skip classes just because they're a load of tosh. You'll get in trouble," she reasoned.

"Trouble is my first name," said Harry. Hermione frowned.

"Don't you mean your middle name?" she asked.

"No, my middle name is James. Like my Dad?"

Hermione groaned, and buried her face in her pile of books. Literally.

"Boys," she snarled from inside her papery mound.

Harry and Ron cackled at her frustration.

Harry could almost see the lightbulb form over her head as she had a thought, snapped back upright and stared at Harry.

"Harry," she began, in the most deathly serious voice she could manage. As she was a fourteen year old girl, this was not very threatening. Harry smiled at her sweetly. "You keep talking about being overage, but you can't enter this Tournament. It's _dangerous_ , Harry. People die in it!"

"So I'm told," he said dryly. "Repeatedly."

"Promise me you won't try to enter," she insisted.

"Would you like me to lie to you?" asked Harry, amused.

"Harry!"

"Look, you said it yourself, this Tournament is dangerous. If the wrong person -" Cedric. "If the wrong person entered, they could die. But I have a knack for surviving. Boy Who Lived, remember? My chances are better than anyone else's."

"You don't know the magic that the seventh years do. No amount of bravery will make up for that," Hermione reasoned. "You're brave, and quick on your feet, and good at surviving impossible things. But you just don't have the education for this!"

Ah, so that was it. Education. Typical Hermione. At least she accepted his uncanny knack for survival. She just thought he was a partially-educated teenage brat like her. The irony wasn't lost on him, and his lips quirked upwards in the ghost of a smile.

"This tournament has been won by wizards under seventeen in the past. It's not like an exam. It's not about what you know. It's about what you do with it," said Harry.

"And what do you expect to do with nothing?" demanded Hermione. Harry faked an expression of shock.

"I'm shocked to see you of all people call three years of education nothing, Hermione."

She spluttered incoherently at that, and Harry laughed.

"I'm entering, Hermione. And I'm going to win."

"And you owe me a thousand galleons when you win," said Ron. Harry smirked.

Hermione lectured Harry on the history of the Tournament all the way to the Herbology classroom, only pausing to wish him good luck with his meeting with Dumbledore before entering the class. Ron gave him a bemused expression, and shrugged, following Hermione into class.

Harry made sure they were seated, facing away from the path, before he continued on his journey. He was about to head towards the Whomping Willow when he paused, considering his options.

"Hell, I may as well let the old man know," muttered Harry. He turned around, and went back to the castle.

In the Entrance Hall he was cornered by Professor McGonagall.

"Shouldn't you be in class, Mr Potter?" she asked, lips thin enough to be invisible.

"That's not a question, is it Professor?" he replied cheekily.

"Let me rephrase that. Why are you not in class? And why should I not be giving you the first of what I suspect will be many detentions to come this year?"

"What's the password to Dumbledore's office?" Harry asked, evading her questions.

"The password to Professor Dumbledore's office isn't given out as easily as detentions, Mr Potter," said McGonagall. Harry grinned. Oh, she may pretend to be stern and proper, but he wasn't fooled by her expression. That had just been a joke. Told to amuse herself, not the naughty student she saw before her, but Harry was quicker on the uptake than he'd been at fourteen. He'd caught her in the act, and she was furious with him for it.

"Mr Potter," she began, about to launch into a tirade he had no chance of stopping. So he cut her off before she began.

"I need to speak to Professor Dumbledore. Urgently."

"Whatever about? Tell me your message and I'll pass it on. Get back to class," she said, refusing to back down.

"It's about Sirius Black," said Harry. Why bother lying when an outrageous truth can accomplish just as much?

"Ice Mice, Mr Potter," she said faintly. "Do hurry back to class afterwards."

Harry strode off towards the nearest staircase.

"Oh, and Mr Potter?" she called, having recovered from her shock. "Detention. Eight. My office. For being out of class."

"I had a legitimate reason," argued Harry.

"Then for disrespecting a teacher, Potter. Off with you."

Harry laughed, but continued on his way unphased. He wondered whether he'd attend her detention or not. It was another potential opportunity to set some more chaos blazing around Hogwarts, a chance to collect an ally to his side, or an opportunity to skip detention and demonstrate precedent for the fact that he was now outside the rules that everybody else followed. They were all good options.

"Ice Mice," he said to a suit of armour in passing.

It took him a while to find the Gargoyle guarding the entrance to Dumbledore's office. He'd forgotten just how big Hogwarts was.

"Ice Mice," he repeated, to the correct inanimate object this time. It promptly animated, and opened the stairway to the Headmaster's office.

At the top of the stairs was Dumbledore's familiar door of burnished oak wood. Harry raised a hand to the handle, then stopped.

"Ice Mice," he tried.

Nothing happened. Harry swore. He'd been hoping Dumbledore was as mad as he was, but he supposed that they were mad in different ways. He could live with that. He reached up again and turned the handle.

"Ah, Harry. I had expected to see you before too long. Although not quite this soon," said Dumbledore, sitting behind his ludicrously oversized desk. Fawkes trilled in agreement and greeting. "I assume you've come to ask what prompted the behaviour of the centaurs last night?"

Harry blinked.

"Not at all. I know what centaurs are like, although that was - unexpected," he said.

"Ah. My apologies. I have been acting as a liaison to our magical brethren in the Forbidden Forest for some time, and hoped I could shed some light on the matter," said Dumbledore.

"And learn what riled them up like that?" suggested Harry. Dumbledore merely smiled, which was as good as a yes.

"Everything's under control with the centaurs, don't worry. I came about Sirius."

"Oh?" said Dumbledore, popping an unrecognisable piece of candy into his mouth.

"He'll be staying with me in Gryffindor Tower as a pet dog," said Harry.

Dumbledore choked.

After a few moments of wheezing, he managed to swallow whatever it was he'd been trying to eat, although there were tracks of moisture at the corners of his eyes from the strain.

"I feel utterly certain that I must have misheard you, and yet my hearing has yet to leave me even in my considerable age," said Dumbledore.

"He needs to be in a familiar, happy environment to heal the damage done by the Dementors. Left alone and on the run, he could become as mad as any other Azkaban inmate."

Harry proceeded to explain the dissonance between Sirius and Padfoot, and their respective mental health. Dumbledore frowned.

"I see your reasoning, Harry, but having Sirius here will only give more life to his Padfoot persona, as he'll have to remain in the form of a dog. It won't help Sirius heal."

"The familiar environment will help him recover memories of his days at Hogwarts, rebuilding the lost feelings in his memories," argued Harry. "This castle is a big part of what shaped his soul. Being here will remind it of what it is. Sirius Black. Gryffindor animagus. Not a stray dog."

"There is...some merit to what you say," allowed Dumbledore. "Although I'm not entirely convinced."

"We'll also be able to spend time together in his human form discretely, and build new memories. Between my map, my cloak, and our combined knowledge of the castle and sneaking around it, we'll never be caught."

"If you are caught, the consequences will be dire. Perhaps for both of you," warned Dumbledore. "You are not the Harry Potter people remember. If you are caught openly consorting with Sirius Black, how long will it be before they claim you are an imposter?"

"The Minister may prove a little more sympathetic, given time. I'm making friends," said Harry lightly.

Dumbledore sighed.

"I do not condone this, but very well. I cannot protect you or Sirius if you are caught."

"I'll keep him on a short leash," Harry promised.

"Be sure that you do. And I suggest you bring him with you to your detention with Minevra tonight," said Dumbledore.

"How do you know about that?" asked Harry, incredulously. "Do the portraits report my every movement to you?"

Dumbledore chuckled, but didn't answer. Harry began to get nervous before the old man made a sweeping gesture at the various magical instruments lining the office.

"One of these many knickknacks lets me know whenever a student is assigned detention or docked house points. I tend to put a record in the end of year reports I send out to parents, as well. It discourages rule-breakers even more than the detentions themselves, I find," said Dumbledore, with an evil gleam in his eye.

"I've never received any end of year reports," said Harry, curious.

"I suspected your Aunt and Uncle wouldn't appreciate them, and since I'm your legal guardian in the magical world, I've been keeping them for myself. Severus' have been particularly refreshing."

"I'll bet," said Harry, fighting a smile. "Can I read them later? I'd love to see if my end of year escapades have balanced out what I've been getting up to during the rest of the year."

"Of course. You're welcome to visit me any time, and we can go over them. I think you'll enjoy seeing what some of your professors wrote about you, although perhaps you'll enjoy the tally of detentions more."

"I'd love to know the actual number of house points Snape has taken from me for breathing too loudly," said Harry. Dumbledore chuckled, but then glanced back at the magical artifact in question with a sombre expression.

"It also helps me keep track of any teachers who may be abusing the disciplinary system we have in place. I've fired a few for it, to my regret."

"Were many of them Defense Against the Dark Arts teachers?" Harry suggested, an idea forming in the back of his mind.

"Indeed. I wonder whether knowledge of such a subject leaves one inclined to more...abrasive practices, or if it is simply one of many methods through which Voldemort's curse on the position acts," said Dumbledore with a sigh. This was one of those rare moments when he just looked like a tired old man.

Harry patted him on the arm comfortingly.

"Bit of both, old man, as I'm sure you've guessed. But don't worry. I'll break that curse for you sometime this year."

"Alas, Alastor has only come out of retirement to teach for a single year, so I shall still have to place my annual adverts." Harry smirked.

"I'm sure I can help you with that problem when we get to it. But for now, where do you keep your Floo Powder?" asked Harry.

Dumbledore pointed to the corner of his mantelpiece, where every other wizard kept their Floo Powder in the same Floo Powder pot stamped with a green F. Oops.

"Ah."

"Don't be long," cautioned Dumbledore. "If you could keep it to one missed class, I won't have to make a note on your records to warn whoever might read them about the consequences of not attending lessons."

"We should probably revisit the subject of me not attending lessons later in the year," said Harry, having no intention of wasting all his time repeating fourth year classes. He just had to bear it for a couple of months for his plan to work.

"Much later, I hope," sighed Dumbledore.

"The Hog's Head," replied Harry in a conversational tone. Dumbledore looked at him in confusion for a moment, and then the fire flared green and Harry disappeared in a swirl of green light and Dumbledore's laughter.

Aberforth hit Harry with a broom. The regular kind, used for sweeping.

"Ow!" complained Harry.

"You're getting soot all over my floor," grumbled Aberforth. "Move."

"It's already covered in straw to soak up mess!" Harry argued.

"I put the straw down to soak up drinks and piss, not soot and Harry fucking Potter. What are you doing here? Your next shift isn't until Thursday night."

"I came to get my dog," said Harry.

"Good. Get that animal out of my pub. People keep giving him drinks," said Aberforth sourly.

"Is that a problem?" asked Harry, taken aback by Aberforth's vitriol at something so simple.

"He's drinking in my pub for free. Yes it's a fucking problem. Get him gone, or open a bar tab for him. I'll not have freeloaders in here. Even Betsie pays for her Butterbeer," he growled.

"What? How can a goat-elf pay for…" Harry trailed off. "You're sick, you know that? Turning a house elf into a goat then making her sell her body to you in exchange for drinks. You're an animal!"

"I'm not fucking my goat, Potter," said Aberforth levelly. Too levelly. Uh oh. Harry tensed. "But the whole time you were working for me, you spent twenty minutes a day tugging on her tits. How did you like those house elf tits, boy? That what gets your wand sparking?"

Harry closed his eyes in revulsion.

"Merlin's balls," he whimpered. Betsie was a goat, he told himself. Just a goat with a past. He hadn't been milking a house elf. Ugh. A shudder of revulsion ran through him.

"Did her milk taste better," began Aberforth nastily, "knowing that you squeezed it out of her?"

Harry resisted the urge to vomit, just barely.

"You're a sick old man, Aberforth," he croaked. Aberforth went back to sweeping soot back into the fireplace.

"Don't start what you can't finish, Potter. Not unless you want to be known as the Boy Who Milked a House Elf."

Harry fled upstairs to his room.

Sirius, having heard everything, was delirious with laughter, stuffing his fist in his mouth to prevent the noise from reaching Aberforth.

Harry kicked him in the gut. It didn't change a thing. The tears around Sirius' eyes were still from laughing, not pain. Harry grimaced, and waited it out. It took an unbearably long time.

"Any trouble with the snake?" he asked, bringing up business matters in a desperate attempt to distract Sirius from what he'd overheard.

"Nah. Took a peek in the bag a few times. Still dead. Still a snake. Still creepy."

"Good. I suppose this can be as good a place as any to hide it, for now. I'll leave the room locked, and we can check on it whenever I come down to work the bar."

"You mean…" began Sirius hopefully.

"That's right, you're going back to Hogwarts with me. I even got Dumbledore to agree, so no need to sneak around. Well, except when you're Sirius," said Harry.

"Hogwarts and sneaking go together like me and Buckbeak," said Sirius cheerily.

"Loud, violent, and subject to the death penalty?" asked Harry dubiously.

"Right? We have so much in common. I bet he really would deliver my mail. If I asked really nicely."

"Hippogriffs are proud creatures," said Harry dryly. "It'd have to be something very important."

"Postcards are out, then," said Sirius with a pout.

"Woof," said Harry. Sirius rolled his eyes.

"You know, you could just ask me to change," he said.

"Woof works better. If I randomly say woof, you change. Could save your fleabitten skin if I see someone coming and you don't."

"Fine, fine," grumbled Sirius. "Woof it is." He still didn't change.

Harry stared at him. Sirius stared back, blankly.

"Woof," said Harry in annoyance.

Sirius changed into Padfoot, a sheepish expression on his canine features. Harry cuffed him on the back of the head.

"Idiot," he muttered affectionately. "Let's get back to Hogwarts."

Harry had to pick Padfoot up to Floo him, since he didn't want Sirius Black appearing in the middle of a pub, even if only Aberforth was around. Soon they were back in Dumbledore's office.

"Welcome back, Harry. Sirius," said Dumbledore levelly.

"Woof," said Harry. Sirius shifted.

"Good to be back, Professor," said Sirius.

Dumbledore looked from one to the other with an unreadable expression.

"Be honest with me, Harry. Am I going to regret this?"

"Probably. But only a little bit. We'll be good. This isn't a second generation of the Marauders," said Harry.

"I'm beyond relieved to hear it," said Dumbledore. "Would you like a drink, Sirius? Harry has classes to attend, but perhaps I can keep you company until he's free at lunch. I believe Care of Magical Creatures is beginning shortly for you," he said, not-so-subtly.

"Actually I'm going to go with Harry to class," said Sirius. "I almost am a Magical Creature, and it's about time I learned to take Care of myself," he said. Harry groaned, but Dumbledore smiled.

"Hagrid will love you, I'm sure. I suppose it's as good a way as any to introduce Harry's new pet to his classmates. Go on, then. This class should be quite a novelty for you, Sirius."

Harry was outside Hagrid's hut when the bell tolled, signalling the change in lessons. He'd got no answer when knocking on Hagrid's door, but found the half-giant out back, moving crates into the pumpkin patch. He knew exactly what was inside. Bang Ended Scoots. He noticed Padfoot sniff the breeze and bare his teeth at the scent.

"'Arry! Yer early. I'd say come help me set up, but these crates could be a mite heavy for yeh."

"Not all of us ate our green vegetables and grew up big and strong like you, Hagrid," said Harry.

"Weren't vegetables, 'Arry," said Hagrid, but managed to shut his mouth before spilling what he thought was his terrible secret, but was actually commonly speculated on, if not outright known to be true. Silly half-giant, Harry thought. Although not so silly as full giants, he mused, remembering Grawp.

"This is my dog, Padfoot. Dumbledore gave me permission to keep him at Hogwarts even though he isn't a cat or an owl or a toad. Good thing, too, or I'd have had to Transfigure him into one. Couldn't leave him behind."

"Lovely dog," said Hagrid, somewhat distractedly. Harry was stunned. It took a lot to distract Hagrid from a new animal friend, even if it wasn't vicious and huge. Oh, but of course. The Skrewts.

"Hagrid…" began Harry, peering into the crates.

"What is it?" replied Hagrid, not really paying attention, being too occupied moving heavy objects full of baby monsters around.

"Did you import these from someone else or cross-breed the Manticores and Fire-Crabs yourself?"

Padfoot whimpered. Hagrid dropped a crate. Luckily, it was only an inch off the ground, as he'd almost finished putting it down, so Harry get to listen to the sounds of enraged Skrewts instead of watching them scurry off into the undergrowth or attack his shins.

"Cross-breedin's illegal," Hagrid said in a shifty tone, avoiding the question instead of taking the easy option and shifting the blame. Hagrid was too honest to lie, especially when caught off guard like this.

"So you did it yourself? Wow. That's some serious magic," said Harry, impressed despite himself. "And you don't even have a proper wand. Just an umbrella."

"Can't do things like this with a wand," said Hagrid, reluctantly admitting that Harry's accusations were spot on. "Animal magic isn't like casting spells. It's more instinct. Takes understanding, not an education."

"I'm impressed," said Harry sincerely. "No wonder you were able to befriend Aragog if you're this talented. Even a baby Acromantula would eat most people."

"Er, well, he did try a coupla times," said Hagrid, looking abashed. "But not many."

"Fang's not your familiar, is he?" asked Harry, putting the pieces together at long last. This could be troublesome. Or useful. Or both.

"Eh? No, he's just a dog. And a friend. Why d'you ask?" asked Hagrid, perturbed.

"Because a wizard can only have one familiar. Aragog's your familiar, isn't he?"

Hagrid looked shell-shocked.

"Never thought about it t'be honest. But...yeah. Tha's got the ring of truth to it. I'll have ter tell him. Wonder if he knows," Hagrid mused to himself.

"If he is, he'll definitely know," said Harry. "And probably be shocked that you didn't."

"Aye, he will be," chuckled Hagrid. "It's not often yeh get to see a spider the size o' an elephant look surprised." He paused, seeing the students streaming down towards them, and lowered his voice. "Mind not mentionin' all this in front of all the others? Don' want any letters going home about cross-breeds or Aragog."

"I'd never get you in trouble, Hagrid," promised Harry sincerely. "But there's a few who already know about the Acromantula after what happened in second year."

"It's not a secret, I 'spose," said Hagrid. "It was public knowledge fer a while, but people forgot, and now it's their grandkids coming to school, not them. But nobody knows about the Blast Ended Skrewts, do they?" he asked, desperate and earnest all at once.

"Only me and Padfoot here," said Harry, putting a hand on his dogfather's head. Padfoot barked on cue.

"He looks like a great dog. Surprised they're letting you have him since yeh already have Hedwig," commented Hagrid.

"He's more like a friend than a pet, really," said Harry truthfully.

"Did that work on Professer McGonagall?" joked Hagrid.

"We'll find out during detention tonight," said Harry. Padfoot wagged his tail so hard that it thumped against Harry's leg. Harry could only guess that he was proud of his godson for getting detention on the first day back from summer.

"On the firs' day?" said Hagrid in dismay. "Was it fer coming to the feast late? Dumbledore said that weren't your fault."

"No, nothing like that. I saw through her stern mask and caught her making a joke when telling me off. She must have an amazing poker face, to get away with doing that, even if it goes way over the heads of most students."

Hagrid grinned.

"Aye, she likes to play with her students. Has to stop it when they get a bit older because they start to hear the jokes and not just the stern voice. Kids are like animals. It's all about yer tone, not what yeh say. But some people start listening when they grow up. Not many, mind you," he said with a wink.

They were interrupted by the arriving Gryffindors, who were mostly intact, save for Neville, who dripped Bubotuber pus. His face and the back of his robes in particular were soaked in it.

Wait a minute. Something was wrong with that image. Neville was good with plants. And Harry remembered what Bubotuber Pus was mainly used for. Getting rid of bad acne. He remembered that it _was_ around this time that Neville's spots had begun to clear up. Harry caught Neville's eye and burst out laughing.

Neville turned red, so Harry quickly walked over to him.

"I know what you did. Good idea," he said.

Neville turned even more red, if that was possible, blushing under the compliment.

"Uh, thanks?" he said. "Don't tell anyone? Please?"

"Don't tell anyone what?" asked Ron.

"Why Neville's covered in Bubotuber Pus," said Harry. Ron looked nonplussed.

"Well he squeezed it too hard, and then he dropped it down his back trying to get rid of it," he said dubiously.

Hermione, meanwhile, wore an expression of brief shock which turned into a knowing smile. Harry winked at her. Trust her to figure it out. Then again, it had been explicitly said out loud in the lesson for everyone to hear. Harry could remember being fourteen, but couldn't remember just how ignorant of everything going on around him he'd been back then.

"Why's Padfoot here?" exclaimed Ron, distracted from Neville's sodden and smelly form.

"That's why I was with Dumbledore. I got permission to have Padfoot stay in our dorm. We can buy him a little doggy basket when we get our first Hogsmeade weekend," explained Harry.

"But that doesn't explain why," said Hermione.

"He was a stray," said Harry. "I couldn't leave him outside and alone with nowhere to go. It's a cold and empty life, like a Dementor is standing next to you. If he stays somewhere warm and happy for a while he can recover from being a stray for so long."

"Looks like he's in pretty good health to me," said Ron.

"Only on the outside," said Hermione softly, meeting Harry's eyes. He nodded. She'd caught the hints he'd dropped in that cover story for any eavesdroppers.

"It'll be wicked to have a dog in our dorm," said Seamus, hovering nearby. "I always wanted one, but me mam never let me. Wouldn't be able to see it anyway, at Hogwarts all year."

Harry grinned at Seamus. Another one on board. Neville wouldn't have any reason to object. So long as Dean didn't turn out to be allergic or a whiny bitch, this would work like a charm.

The lesson was over fairly quickly. Everyone except Harry was nursing burns and blisters, and Padfoot was whimpering in pain from where he'd been bitten. An infant Skrewt had escaped its cage, and Padfoot had caught it. Unfortunately, it had been one of the ones with the nasty suckers on its belly, and had managed to injure the inside of Padfoot's mouth.

Harry leaned low when everyone else was distracted by complaining about how horrible the Skrewts were.

"I'll heal that for you as soon as we're alone. I don't know if healing charms will work on a dog, and I don't want to risk turning your sinuses inside out by botching them." Padfoot pressed his head against Harry's leg in recognition.

"At last," exclaimed Ron loudly. "Lunch!"

"We just were lunch," muttered Neville, glaring at the Skrewt crates. Harry snickered.

On the way up to the castle, he managed to grab Ron and Hermione, and pull them into a secret passageway.

"Hey!" complained Ron. "Lunch!"

"Woof," said Harry.

"It makes no sense telling me to turn back by saying woof as well," complained Sirius, morphing back into his human form.

"I know. But it annoyed you," said Harry. Sirius growled. Hermione jumped. It had been an actual growl, like a feral dog. Not the sound of an annoyed human. Harry didn't blame her for being startled. "Open your mouth," Harry commanded. "Episkey."

"I hate those things," muttered Sirius.

"I hate your dog-breath. Do you think it'd be suspicious if I taught my new dog to use a toothbrush?" asked Harry.

Sirius' eyes narrowed, but he smiled. It wasn't a nice smile.

"I'll have to borrow yours," he said.

"That's vile," stated Hermione. "But why are you here? I thought you were out of the country."

"So does the Ministry," said Sirius. "That's how I can get away with it. They're not really looking for me anymore. But I've got to look out for Harry."

"I can look after myself," said Harry.

"What about that accident you had over the summer?" suggested Hermione. "Maybe Sirius could have prevented it from happening!"

Harry and Sirius exchanged a meaningful look, but said nothing.

"But that's not the only reason, is it?" Hermione asked, going back to what she'd realised in Care of Magical Creatures. "You can't heal properly if you're on the run, even in another country. You need rest, right?"

"Pretty much," admitted Sirius. "It goes deeper than that. Dementors do something nasty to you when you're exposed for too long. But being here is going to help with that."

"So you're swapping one animagus in your dorm for another," said Hermione, looking from Ron to Harry.

Harry laughed, but Ron turned an odd colour, and clenched his fists.

"This one isn't evil. Or boring," Ron bit out. "It's not the same."

Sirius put his hand on Ron's shoulder, and he calmed down a bit.

"Just think of me as a dog when I look like one, and Sirius when I look like this. Two different entities. No connection. Think you can do that?"

"Yeah," said Ron at last. "Padfoot and Sirius."

"That's the ticket," said Sirius, grinning. "Now then, lunch! I haven't had a Hogwarts lunch in years!"

"Woof," said Harry sternly.

Padfoot whined, ears drooping.

"Oh, don't be that way. We'll put a plate on the floor for you," said Harry. Padfoot's tail immediately started wagging. "Attaboy. Now, heel."

Sirius shifted back into his human form for just long enough to flip Harry off before reverting to Padfoot. Ron stifled a laugh, and the four of them headed off in search of food.

After lunch, they headed in their separate directions. Ron and Harry climbed most of the way to Divination together with Padfoot loping behind them, when Ron suddenly paused.

"How do we get Padfoot up the ladder?" he asked.

"Levitation charm," said Harry. "And don't worry, I brought my cloak."

Ron looked at him in a mixture of surprise and glee.

"You mean we're really going to do it?"

Harry didn't respond except to chuckle to himself.

Several minutes later, they were at the top of the Divination Tower. Padfoot was covered by the invisibility cloak, and Harry levitated him surreptitiously up the ladder between himself and Ron.

The heady fumes of the classroom were giving Harry a headache only five minutes in, so he couldn't imagine how bad it was for Padfoot. He decided that enough was enough, and leaned under the table to whisper to Padfoot.

"Climb onto the table. Don't knock anything. Make sure the cloak stays on."

The quiet scratching of claws against wood were the only indication that Padfoot had done as he'd asked. When Harry was sure he was in position, he raised his hand.

"Professor Trelawney?"

"Yes dear?" she asked, warbling in that horrible voice of hers.

"I found the Grim."

As predicted, she immediately bustled over to peer into his teacup. A moment later, she straightened, and looked at Harry with the most serious expression he'd ever seen her take.

"My boy, you cannot possibly hope to read tea leaves when you have not drunk the tea."

Her full attention was on Harry, so she didn't see him pull the invisibility cloak off Padfoot, who raised his hackles and looked as fierce as he could.

"I didn't find him in my cup," said Harry, pointing.

Trelawney turned. Padfoot growled, baring his teeth wide. And then Professor Trelawney's eyes rolled back in her head, and she fell bonelessly to the floor in a faint. Harry and Ron burst into simultaneous laughter, echoed by the thumps of Padfoot's wagging tail.

"That may have been a bit much for her," Ron mused.

"Still, an omen of death appeared. It must have come to carry us away to the next life," said Harry.

"Is it out of this classroom?" asked Ron.

"I expect so," said Harry.

Padfoot knew his cue, and so leapt down from the table, and pawed at the trapdoor. Harry opened it.

Suddenly, Lavender shrieked at the back of the room.

"Harry, Ron, no! That's a Grim! If you go with it you'll die!" she shouted.

"It's a dog," muttered Seamus, looking annoyed. He was sitting close enough that she might have perforated an eardrum with that shriek. Harry was sure he'd see the funny side soon enough, and exactly as predicted, Seamus smiled as he realised what Harry and Ron were doing.

"It's an omen of our fate, Lavender," said Harry in a morose voice.

"Nobody can avoid their fate," added Ron.

Padfoot jumped down through the trapdoor. Harry cast a silent cushioning charm to save his Padfeet from becoming Bruisefeet. Upon hitting the ground, Padfoot barked, twice.

"Two barks," whispered Lavender. "For two of you." She was pale, and looked almost as if she was going to mimic Trelawney and faint.

Harry and Ron managed to keep their faces solemn as they climbed down the ladder. Once they were out of earshot, they burst out laughing.

"We're so dead when McGonagall finds out," wheezed Ron.

"Worth it," said Harry. Padfoot barked in agreement.

They snuck out to the grounds through secret passages, and eventually made it outside without being seen. The three of them lazed on the lakeshore all afternoon, in a spot so covered by trees that Sirius was able to spend some time in his human shape. There was a patch on the shore where rich sunlight broke through the foliage, and the three of them stayed there for hours, enjoying the feeling of being free.

Soon the sun began to hang low in the sky, and they headed back to the castle for dinner. Sirius was reluctant to turn back into Padfoot, and it was that reluctance that made Harry sure of it: although they'd hardly done or said anything, those few hours of companionship and freedom had been a new happy memory for him, helping to repair his broken mind and soul.

Dinner was soon over, mostly spent introducing his new dog to curious students. Just about every Gryffindor wanted to fawn over Padfoot, and a few brave Hufflepuffs even came over to pet him.

"This is a great dog, Harry. How'd you manage it?" asked Cedric. Harry struggled to meet the eyes of somebody who'd haunted him for over a decade.

"I got lucky. Dumbledore has a soft spot for lost strays, so he let me bend the rules a bit. It helped that I'm a bit of a stray myself."

"You don't look like much of a stray these days," he said. Harry smiled at Cedric uneasily.

"Every scared little first year has to grow up sometime," he said.

"Seems like you've been doing a lot of growing," Cedric said cautiously. "There are rumours going around that your accident actually made you overage." Ah. There it was. Cedric was scouting out the competition.

"You're thinking of entering the Tournament, aren't you?" asked Harry. "And you're wondering if I'm going to put my name down for it."

"Guilty," said Cedric, flushing a little bit pink, but not looking ashamed. "I wanted to know who I'm up against."

"I'm going to enter. And I'm going to win. If it's any consolation, I'm sure that you'd have been the Champion if not for me," said Harry, smiling nervously. Cedric scowled, suddenly.

"Yeah, me too."

"What?" asked Harry, surprised.

"I'm a damn good wizard. Better than any sixth or seventh years I know about. It would have been me," Cedric said bitterly. "I was sure it was going to be me. And even if you do enter, you're a fourth year, no matter what age you might be. Surely you couldn't be chosen over me. But then I remember who you are."

"I'm sorry if you feel like I'm stealing your chance," Harry said uneasily.

"Don't be," said Cedric, suddenly smiling again. "You haven't beaten me yet. You're just the only one I was unsure about. It could still be me. Should still be me."

"We'll see," said Harry.

"But Harry?" Cedric asked, hesitantly. "If it is you - make sure you win."

"Whoever gets chosen, Hogwarts wins. I'll agree to that if you do. I won't have you get chosen and then lose after talking like that about how good you are," said Harry, smiling.

Cedric held out a hand. Harry clasped it firmly, sealing the promise. It felt like pulling a dead man out of his grave. And that was why Harry had to be the only Hogwarts Champion.

It was dead on eight when Harry knocked on Professor McGonagall's door. She opened it by magic, not getting up from her desk. Harry strode in and took the chair in front of her. Padfoot clambered onto his lap.

"At least we need not add tardiness to the reasons for your presence here, Mr Potter," she said distractedly, flicking through a sheaf of summer essays with an expression of loathing Harry had only ever seen on Snape before.

"I'm still not sure I earned a detention. If you needed help marking those essays, you only needed to ask," said Harry nonchalantly.

"Being out of class. Talking back to a teacher. And having the temerity to laugh at a joke you were not supposed to recognise. I lose all authority when students hear a joke instead of the telling-off they usually deserve."

"So in short, you're annoyed that I caught you out?" asked Harry mildly.

"Annoyed because it means I can no longer amuse myself in such a manner in your Transfiguration lessons any longer. Perhaps I shall relieve the frustration of pounding knowledge into that thick Potter skull of yours like Professor Snape does."

"Do you mean the poor hygiene or the habit of constantly belittling my parents?" asked Harry.

Professor McGonagall looked up, with an expression that was part annoyance and part triumph.

"And here we have you insulting two teachers. I had planned to send you on your way, but perhaps this detention is justified after all," she said.

"I only insulted Snape," said Harry, confused.

"No, Mr Potter. And I need not remind you that it is Professor Snape. You insulted me by suggesting that I might take up the habit of slandering Lily and James."

Padfoot's ears perked up, and he growled.

Professor McGonagall gave Padfoot a sharp look.

"I don't know what Albus was thinking, letting you bring a stray dog into the school, but I assure you, I do not make a habit of speaking ill of the dead. Especially those who were as dear to me as your parents were."

"Well he's not really a dog," said Harry, pushing Padfoot off his lap. "He's-"

"Sirius Black," said Sirius, shifting to stand on two legs, then dipping back down into a flourishing bow. "It's good to see you again, Minnie," he continued.

Harry saw the expression on Professor McGonagall's face turn from shock to rage, and immediately felt his heart turn to ice. What was this? She didn't know!

"Expelliarmus!" she snapped, and Sirius crashed into the ground, his wand landing more neatly in Professor McGonagall's free hand.

"What have you done to Harry, you traitorous beast?" she demanded. "Incarcerous!"Thin cords appeared from the air, binding Sirius' wrists together behind his back.

"I haven't done anything to him," protested Sirius, wide-eyed in horror. Harry was just chanting oh shit oh shit oh shit in his head, over and over.

"Silencio!" snarled Professor McGonagall, muting Sirius' pleas.

"Potter, you've been Confounded. Must have been. Unless it was the Imperius…." she trailed off, muttering to herself, a white-knuckled hand gripping her wand.

Harry cursed Dumbledore silently. Just how had that old bastard expected this to go down? Had he meant for Harry to introduce his Head of House to his new pet?

"Poppy will have to take a look at you to be sure. Albus can deal with Black. Black! Here!" she shouted. Harry had never seen her this angry. She got frustrated with students, and could have an icy severity, but this was red-hot anger. It was personal. Fuck. She really believed that Sirius had killed his parents.

"Professor, I think there's something I need to tell you," said Harry. She looked at him, her face a mask. "Sirius is innocent. It was Pettigrew who betrayed my parents, not him."

"Oh, Harry," she murmured. "That's the Confundus Charm on you. Try to break through it, if you can. It'll wear off in time, but you can help it along. You're a stubborn boy, I know that. Use it! Sirius killed Peter Pettigrew just after your parents died. Ignore whatever lies he ensorcelled into your head, and think!"

"I think perhaps you should let Sirius explain himself," suggested Harry, and raised his wand to Finite Sirius' magical gag.

"Expelliarmus!" cried McGonagall.

Harry felt the world slow down as his battlefield adrenaline kicked in. By the time McGonagall had finished speaking the incantation for the Disarming Charm, he had his wand raised directly into the path of her spell. He let flitters of Chronomancy loose, the most basic defense he had learned against spells by using time magic. The flitters warped time around the spell, causing it to lose cohesion, existing partway in the past, present, and future. He had come to rely on it more than shield charms, although it had its limits.

Flitters didn't block the spell like a shield would. They broke it apart. There was a flash of red light as the spell failed, and McGonagall stared at Harry with a grim expression.

"It must be the Imperius, then," she whispered to herself.

"I'm not enthralled by any spell," Harry snapped. "Be reasonable. Sit down, so we can explain the situation."

"No, Harry, you're Confunded. Whatever you believe right now, it's a lie Black planted into your mind with a spell," she insisted. Her wand was still pointing at him. His every instinct screamed at him to take it from her, but he pushed it aside. This wasn't a battlefield. He didn't want to hurt her by duelling her. She had to see reason.

"Professor Dumbledore will back up anything we say," offered Harry.

McGonagall shook her head sadly. "Albus will help explain what's happened to you. He'll be able to put this to rights. Stupefy."

Harry's wand was still in the air, so he only needed to call out the Chronomantic flitters and dissipate her spell again. He raised an eyebrow.

"Professor, you're the one who's been attacking us. I'm not Confunded. I'm rational, coherent, and obviously know something you don't. Please put the wand down." Please don't make me hurt you, he added afterwards, silently.

He could see it in her eyes. She wasn't backing down. Harry grimaced. He had to end this, fast. He cast a silent Stunning Spell, but the bright blue of a Protego blocked it. Harry sighed. Anything strong enough to get through her shield would be lethal. She wasn't listening to reason. Sometimes there was only one way to end a fight. Letting the other person win.

Harry cast another Stunning Spell, but tweaked this one with Chronomancy, freezing it in place at the tip of his wand. Outside time, until released.

"Expelliarmus," tried Professor McGonagall again. This time he didn't call the flitters. Couldn't, in fact, as his wand was already occupied by a spell.

His wand flew through the air as neatly as Sirius' hand, and landed in McGonagall's hand. The Chronomantic lock triggered, and Harry's frozen Stunning Spell dispersed into Professor McGonagall's hand. She collapsed, hitting her head on the side of the desk as she fell. Harry winced. That was exactly what he'd been trying to avoid.

He looked around the room. Sirius lay trussed in ropes in the corner, silenced and only able to writhe. McGonagall lay uncannily still on the floor, bleeding prodigiously from a head wound, three wands held across her two hands, even while stunned. Harry tried to tell himself that head wounds bled a lot, and that it looked like it was bleeding more than it was because the red contrasted against her grey hair, but he wasn't convincing himself.

What a mess. And he hadn't even got out of his chair. Harry pushed himself out of it, muttering profanities. At least McGonagall wasn't conscious to hear them and pass out again in shock. He went to her first, taking his wand and Sirius' back. He shot a Finite Incantatem at Sirius, and threw his godfather's wand after the spell, never taking his attention off his fallen Transfiguration teacher. Fuck, this was a disaster.

Harry wasn't a healer. And this one looked bad. He couldn't send Sirius to get Madam Pomfrey, but he couldn't leave Professor McGonagall alone, or, worse, with Sirius while he went to get her. He sighed, and fingered the mottled surface of his wand.

It had never worked before, but it was worth a try.

Harry loosed the flitters, but unlike the directionless clouds he used to block spells, he wove them with gestures of his wand, shaping them over Professor McGonagall. The easiest option would be to revert her body to an earlier form, effectively reversing time and healing her. But that would cause her to lose all memories of what had happened, would mean that this fight had served no purpose but to ruin his evening, so he pushed for something deeper. Something new.

He'd never been able to grasp the finer points of this technique before, but the theory was sound. Now that he had his new wand, an instrument precisely tuned to Chronomancy, he stood a chance. He separated her mind and body, holding her stunned consciousness outside time while he reverted her body to an earlier state. The blood matting her hair didn't disappear, but the thick gash through which it had been leaking sealed in an instant.

Harry sat back on his heels and let out a long sigh.

"Is she going to be okay?" asked Sirius, his face ashen.

"Yeah. But we're going to have a hell of a time explaining things," said Harry. He gathered McGonagall's mind with a shaped cloud of flitters, and re-attached it to her body. There was no visible change, but the magic felt right. It had worked.

Needless to say, there would have been a sign if it hadn't. An explosive one. Harry groaned, and rubbed his eyes with the sleeve of his robe. He was an idiot. If that hadn't worked, he'd have made things a thousand times worse. A knock to the head is nothing compared to having your brain explode. He hit himself in the face several times, frustrated by the whole situation. By everything that had happened, and by what had not happened.

"Sirius," Harry said hoarsely. "Every now and then, remind me not to test new applications of Chronomancy on people I like."

His godfather tensed like a dog about to run.

"Did something go wrong?" he asked, worried, angry, and scared, all at once.

"I already said she'll be okay. But - fuck. I shouldn't have tried to heal her that way. If it had gone wrong, she'd be dead."

"She's not dead," said Sirius, pulling her up into her chair. "She has a pulse. And she isn't bleeding anymore."

"I know that!" snapped Harry. "Sorry. Not your fault. But that was risky. I got cocky, but thank Merlin I got lucky as well, or it would have been awful."

They stood there, staring at the bloody patch on McGonagall's head, and both men mutely considered what had nearly happened. Sirius arrested to McGonagall dying - there were no good options in that brief fight.

"So what now?" asked Sirius.

"Stand back. Against the wall. Leave your wand on the desk," said Harry.

"My wand? What if she attacks us again?" Sirius questioned, even as he put his wand down. Harry let out a breath of relief at that simple gesture of trust. Sirius had done as he'd asked, even while questioning why. He'd trusted Harry had a reason. Trust was everything now.

"She's less likely to attack if you're not armed. Either of you," Harry added wryly, putting his teacher's wand beside Sirius'.

"Ennervate," he said.

Professor McGonagall's eyes snapped open, blazing with fury.

"My wand is on the desk," said Sirius quietly. "I'm not attacking you or Harry. Ever."

"Professor Dumbledore gave me the impression you knew that Sirius was innocent," said Harry. "He'll be able to verify that, as soon as you want to ask. Floo him now if you want to." Harry hoped she wouldn't take that option. He didn't want to involve Dumbledore in the mess he'd caused. This was his game from here on out. Dumbledore was going to be a piece on his chessboard this time around. "I'd rather you didn't, though."

"And why's that?" asked Professor McGonagall in icy tones, folding her arms. The simple gesture made Harry almost sigh in relief. She wasn't reaching for her wand. With her arms folded, it'd be even harder to get to it. Inadvertent or not, body language could speak volumes. She was listening.

"Before you insist that Sirius is guilty of betraying my parents, just consider that you were unconscious and knew about him. You're now awake, alive, and haven't had your memories tampered with. The criminal you've read fairy stories about in the Daily Prophet is not in this room. Is not real," urged Harry.

"I never wanted to believe that Black did those terrible things, but he admitted it. When they brought him in, he was saying it, over and over. Saying that he killed his best friends," whispered Professor McGonagall.

"I killed Lily and James by suggesting that Peter be our Secret Keeper. I was a decoy, but Peter was the traitor," said Sirius. "And I thought that I'd killed Peter that day in revenge, but he survived in hiding."

"This is too much," said Professor McGonagall. "I forced myself to accept that awful truth, but now - it just isn't there anymore?" She blinked, as if waking from a long sleep.

"So why wait so long to escape?" she asked.

Sirius gave her the long explanation of what had happened in Harry's third year. At the end, there were unshed tears in her eyes, but she was smiling.

"You boys, animagi? It makes a teacher proud," she said. "I helped you through the early stages, but I thought it was only you. And I never would have guessed that you succeeded. Or why you did it."

"We weren't going to let Remus suffer alone," said Sirius, simply. Professor McGonagall let out a muffled sob.

"I remember the little boy who came to me one evening in his first year and told me he was worried that he was going to turn evil because all his family were Dark Wizards. I never doubted your courage to be true to yourself until that night. Now I don't have to doubt anymore."

"I might have gone down that way if it wasn't for you, Minnie," Sirius said softly. "I remember my early years at Hogwarts too. The detentions that were really lessons. The way you pushed James towards me, that reckless fool who had no sense of who to befriend. A Black and a werewolf! The only way it could get worse would be if we had a Death Eater among us. And look what happened to Peter."

Harry remained silent, watching Sirius and McGonagall recant a history he'd never known about.

"You were the first person to look out for me," continued Sirius. "The closest thing to a real mother I ever had."

"Idiot boy," she mumbled.

Sirius pushed himself off the wall, and crossed the room. Harry hesitated, hoping that the sudden movement wouldn't startle McGonagall into regressing, into undoing whatever progress was being made here.

And then he stared as Sirius wrapped his Transfiguration teacher in an embrace.

"You're the one who showed me I didn't have to be a Black. That I could be Sirius."

Professor McGonagall was speechless.

"I don't think Dumbledore intended it to happen this way, but he suggested that I bring my new dog to this detention. Maybe he just wanted you to meet Padfoot, but we thought he'd told you about Sirius."

"Your new dog, Harry?" she said softly. Harry guessed that Mr Potter went out the window in situations like this.

"Dumbledore's already agreed he can stay with me in the dorm, since he has no other home, but my Head of House should probably know about it, too. He's a lovely dog. Goes woof," said Harry.

Sirius groaned at the trigger-word, but transformed regardless. Padfoot jumped up onto the desk and looked at Professor McGonagall intently.

"Of all my students, I was always proudest of you, Sirius. Now I'm prouder than ever. Nobody has ever become an Animagus under my tutelage, and you not only became one, you taught two other students. And all to help ease a friend's pain," she mused.

"Sirius Black is a man, Professor," said Harry gently. "My dog is called Padfoot."

"Of course, Mr Potter," she said, gathering some of her lost composure. "When I have a free period Padfoot is welcome to visit me. I dare say he'll enjoy some company that isn't teenagers, and even a dog could spot some of the more outrageous mistakes in the essays I have to mark, so perhaps he'll even help me with your homework, Mr Potter."

Harry smiled, and tugged at Padfoot's ear.

"Consider this rent. Gryffindor dorm dog and assistant Transfiguration Professor. It'll help you pass the time while I'm elsewhere." Padfoot barked in agreement.

"You mean in class?" asked Professor McGonagall, raising an eyebrow.

"Sometimes," said Harry.

Professor McGonagall shook her head.

"I don't even want to know. This is too much to take in already. Don't even think of telling me what you're up to until I've had a strong drink and a night's sleep."

"I've had worse detentions," Harry mused.

"Yes, I recall Voldemort attacking you in one," said Professor McGonagall dryly.

"I actually meant answering Lockhart's fanmail," said Harry offhandedly. "But I suppose Voldemort was a close second. Draco was annoying the whole time."

"Go to bed, Mr Potter. And take Mr Padfoot with you. Because of you two, my entire third year class is getting an Acceptable for their summer homework, and I'm setting fire to my employer's beard in the morning."

"Goodnight, Professor," said Harry.

"Goodnight Potter," she said firmly, finally reaching for her wand, and pushing him out of her office. Once Harry and Padfoot stood in the corridor, they heard her cast a locking charm, and then there was silence. Man and dog looked at each other.

"Bad detention, Harry?"

Harry spun around, only to see Katie a few feet away.

"It wasn't really a detention," he said.

"You look like somebody kicked your dog," she said sardonically. "Which I would never do!" she added hastily, giving Padfoot a quick look.

"Professor McGonagall is a cat person, but she's agreed to let Padfoot stay. It was a bit of a fight, though," he said.

"How does she feel about Acromantula?" asked Katie airily.

Harry gave in to his baser desires and hexed her. Langlock. Wordlessly, so she couldn't learn the spell and use it against him. Her tongue locked against the roof of her mouth. She tried to speak, but only muted moaning sounds came out.

Her muffled moans of complaint cheered him up as he walked in the much-needed direction of bed. Idly he wondered if that spell would wear off on its own or if Katie's dorm-mates would be getting a nice quiet night.

"If she ever kicks you, we're feeding her to one of those blasted Acromantula she's so enamoured with," Harry said to Padfoot. "Although she might like that. Do Hippogriffs eat people? Buckbeak mostly liked ferrets."

Padfoot barked, which Harry interpreted as him saying that he liked to eat ferrets too. He wouldn't be surprised.


	8. Chapter 8

_A/N: And here's Chapter Eight. Harry's beginning to get frustrated with waiting for events to happen, so he's given in and is beginning to meddle a little early, and in unexpected avenues thanks to the unwitting suggestions of another student who has no idea what she's going to be helping Harry do._

Harry stared at Ravenclaw's Diadem. Sirius stared at Ravenclaw's Diadem. There was no Compulsion coming from it, only their natural desire to ram magical objects which promised a power-up onto their heads.

"Bastard," said Sirius.

"Yeah," agreed Harry. "I don't want to trash the Founders' artifacts this time. There's one surviving item for each of them. That seems important, somehow."

"Laden with magical symbolism I can't even pretend to understand, but there's a pattern there, and that's how old magic works," said Sirius. "Still, if we run out of time…"

"There's always FiendFyre," said Harry with a sigh. "But the horcruxes aren't our priority. The resurrection is. So we can't move openly against Voldemort yet."

"You said that happens at the end of the year. Do you plan to just sit on your hands, going to History of Magic and waiting?" asked Sirius incredulously.

Harry snorted in derision.

"Don't be ridiculous. I have to wait until my name comes out of the Goblet of Fire, then we're off the leash. Two months. It feels like a lifetime." Harry groaned, and turned to Sirius. "I can't do it. I slept through these lessons already. Now I actually know the material. That makes it worse."

"James and I felt like that sometimes. Not the deja-vu time travel bit, of course, but we were way ahead of the class in anything that needed a wand. We filled our time with some extracurricular activities," said Sirius, smirking.

"The Weasley twins have a monopoly on pranks. And a business plan for their future. I'm not stepping on that so you can re-enact your childhood."

"Forget the pranks. That was just what everyone saw us do. What did we do that nobody else knew about?" asked Sirius.

"The map? And your animagus forms?" guessed Harry.

"Exactly!" exclaimed Sirius in triumph. "We didn't just focus on the main task. Ours was school, yours is Voldemort. Same deal. We had side-projects. Deviated from the path. Because the end goal was waiting for us at exam time, and we had plenty of time to spare, prepare, and waste on our own goals."

"I have side-projects," said Harry shiftily.

"Do they all swing back into your main project?" Sirius asked in mock exasperation.

"I'm Harry Potter. Everything I do typically ends in Voldemort," Harry said wryly.

Sirius shook his head in mock disgust.

"Does that include women?" Sirius asked in jest.

Harry's mood soured. He gave Sirius a bleak look.

"Yeah. Once or twice. He didn't like it when I was happy. He liked to take my things and break them. People aren't things - but they are to him."

"Shit, Harry," began Sirius, but Harry cut him off.

"Whatever you were about to say, forget it. I've heard all the hollow platitudes before. Some things cut you in a way that words can't reach. You live with it. You move on. You carry it with you, but it's not a burden. It's who you are. Sympathy doesn't make it better," he said bitterly.

Sirius gave Harry a hard look.

"Will killing him make it better?"

Harry sighed.

"No," he said at last. "But it'll make him stop. That's more important than anyone I've lost. We've all lost people to Voldemort, and that was just his first war. It gets worse. Always, it gets worse. That's what I'm here for. To change the direction so things can get better someday. Even if we don't live to see it."

"Tell me about these side projects of yours," asked Sirius. "No, don't look at me all mopey like that. Future. Past. Whatever. Even if it won't happen again, it'll always have happened to you, right?"

"Yes," said Harry through gritted teeth. "Even if we save the world and cover it in butterflies, I'll remember when it went the other way."

"So don't let it be a burden," said Sirius, using Harry's own words against him. "It's experience. Motivation. You know his tactics and his personality. He doesn't know you. That's a massive advantage."

"I always cheat," said Harry with a grim smile.

"Attaboy," said Sirius, ruffling Harry's hair. "So. Side projects?"

"The first is the Daily Prophet. Rita Skeeter. I don't know if you know her, given that you were in Azkaban for most of her career."

"I read a few papers when I slipped out," said Sirius. "She's a nasty piece of work. Political bloodhound with nobody holding the leash."

"That pretty much sums her up. She attacks everyone for trashy sensationalist articles. But narrow her aim a bit, and you've got the power of the mob on your hands. People believe what they see in the paper, just because it's in the paper. Like 'Sirius Black - Mass Murderer'."

Sirius shifted uneasily. Harry almost didn't notice.

"What?" he asked. "Surely that doesn't bother you? We both know it's not true."

"That's the thing," said Sirius slowly. "I didn't kill Pettigrew. I was trying to, believe me, but we both saw him alive and well last year. But what they're calling me? Yeah. That's true."

"You were fighting a war," insisted Harry. "Death Eaters don't fall down to tickling jinxes. You have to put them down so they don't get up."

"I know that!" growled Sirius. "I don't care about anyone who's died with their wand pointed at me. I'm not going to lie down without fighting to the bone. But those Muggles weren't fighting me. They were just - there."

Harry looked at his godfather, uncertain. Was this an aftereffect of the Dementors; survivor's guilt warped by Dark magic? Was it just something lost in the confusion as he fought Pettigrew? Or - Harry felt ice in his stomach, cold shards driving into him.

"A lot of spells get flung around in a duel. It could have been him just as easily as it could have been you. You don't know for sure, right? It's just guilt."

Sirius was silent.

"Sirius?" Harry asked.

After a long time, Sirius finally looked Harry in the eyes.

"He was too fast. I could cast spells beyond his imagining, but I couldn't hit him with anything. I can fight, but he could run better than I could chase. Every spell, dodged by a hair, or a mile. I got mad. I got stupid." Sirius took a deep breath, and shuddered, remembering that day. "I knew there was only one way I could take him out. I couldn't just attack where he was."

"You had to attack everywhere he could be," finished Harry softly.

"I'd been chasing him for a while. I knew how far he could move after I cast a spell. The blast radius had to be that big to catch him. I doubled it to be sure."

"I've had to do something like that before," muttered Harry. "I didn't even notice there was anyone nearby until they were all dead. It was just me and my target. Nothing else was real."

"You get collateral damage in war, but I destroyed a dozen innocent lives for revenge. Because I was selfish. I had to kill him myself, not wait for the Aurors to haul him in. Voldemort had just died, and I went out there and killed Muggles because I was too angry to miss my last chance before he got away," said Sirius. "They're calling me by the right name, Harry. Mass-Murderer. And it was all for nothing, because that rat bastard got away. And again, last year!"

Harry stood in stunned silence. He had never imagined this. Sirius Black was his innocent godfather - innocent of Peter Pettigrew's murder. But he wasn't innocent, after all.

"We're all capable of terrible things, Sirius," Harry managed at last. "I won't tell you the things I've done. It's not a competition. I know that won't make it any better. But you're alive. I'm alive. That's what matters today."

"It's what matters most," Sirius said quietly. "But it's not the only thing which matters. I know you've been moving to clear my name. Don't. I could have escaped from Azkaban for a very long time. But I knew I deserved to be there."

"You can do more good out here," said Harry adamantly.

"Yes," said Sirius. "When I saw that Pettigrew was alive I had to go after him to finish the job. To make those deaths mean something. Not just random slaughter. That was more important than being punished for what I did. What we're doing now - even though I don't know the half of it - is more important than being punished."

"You don't deserve to be punished," said Harry. "Punishment isn't justice. It's revenge. You saw where that leads. Both in Azkaban - and how you got there."

"Then what is justice? Is there any, except a wand at your throat?" joked Sirius grimly.

"Justice is stopping the people who're going to do it again. The ones who do it on purpose. The ones who don't feel bad afterwards and ask themselves questions like these, Sirius!" shouted Harry.

"Don't drown in guilt, you mangy hound. You're my second favourite pet," Harry said at last, after a silence that had gone on too long.

Sirius remained silent for a while, but when he finally looked up, he no longer looked stricken by grief and guilt.

"I thought telling you would be harder than this," he said.

"Let me guess, you expected me to be outraged, and curse your name, and hate you?"

"Just a bit," said Sirius.

"Telling me was just another attempt to punish yourself, wasn't it?" demanded Harry. When Sirius didn't look at him, he powered on regardless. "But it didn't work. You've finally told me. Got rid of that horrible secret that was dragging you down. Now it's just part of who you are. It's in the open. Accept it, and live."

"You're right. It didn't work," said Sirius. "I actually feel better now. That's fucked up."

"I'm still going to clear your name," said Harry.

"I won't live a lie, Harry. I killed those people, and the Ministry should hunt down killers, not pardons them. Some Death Eaters might have bought their way out, but I'll live an honest life as a fugitive, fucked up as that might sound."

"I understand," said Harry softly.

"Then you won't do it?"

"I'm still going to do what I was planning. Get the truth out there." Harry shrugged, and smiled weakly at Sirius. "Just turns out the truth isn't what I thought, after all."

"What exactly are you going to tell people?" demanded Sirius.

"What happened. That you're not a Death Eater. You're a loyal friend who made a mistake while mad with grief. That you're not a danger lurking on the street corner. Just a man who fucked up as badly as I might do."

"None of that brings those Muggles back to life."

Harry gazed into the distance for a while, trying to push away memories of scorched flesh and screams.

"It might bring you back to life," Harry said at last. Sirius sighed, and slumped onto the floor.

"Alright. At least this will stop some people from being afraid to go out at night because I'm on the loose. They thought I was evil. I can cope with admitting I was just stupid."

"The line between the two gets frighteningly thin at times," said Harry.

Harry gazed at Ravenclaw's Diadem, still perched only feet away from them. He wondered if the horcrux had been pulling on Sirius' negative emotions, forcing this confession. He sighed, and shook his head wearily. Maybe it had, and maybe it hadn't. Maybe this had been building up for a while and needed to come out. Either way, it was done.

In a way Harry hoped it had been the horcrux. Because despite Sirius' horrible confession, Harry had seen the weight lift from him at the thought of getting his true story out there, even if it changed nothing when the DMLE came sniffing around.

"Let's get out of here," said Harry. "We can't do anything with it and it's safest here, where nobody ever comes except to lose things."

"Should we bring the snake here?" suggested Sirius.

"I don't know if I like the thought of two of them being in the same room," said Harry. "It might be nothing, but horcruxes pull at each other. They might draw on each other. Grow stronger. Combine into one. Maybe explode, or do nothing. But they could alert Voldemort to somebody interfering with them, and that might cause his plans to change."

"If you rely on him behaving as he did last time, you'll die the moment he tries something new," cautioned Sirius.

"I know," said Harry. "I'm not trying to repeat the past. Just make sure that one moment still happens. As soon as my name comes out of the Goblet of Fire, it's a fixed moment in time. He'll use the same ritual. I'll fuck it up for him. Then we fight."

"Why not just get him now, while he's weak?" asked Sirius.

"He'll find another way to come back when we don't expect it. He'll be back eventually. All we can do is prepare. Either we fight on our terms in the open, or his, with assassinations in the shadows and terror in the streets."

"Right," said Sirius. "The Horcruxes."

"We can exorcise them when we learn how, or destroy them if we never do. Strip his advantages away. This time counts for all," said Harry. "This time."

"Enough moping!" demanded Harry at last. "Woof." Sirius shifted back into Padfoot, and they left that oversized room of lost treasures and traps behind. Harry hoped he could prevent the Founders' artifacts from being damaged, but if he needed to, he'd tear down Hogwarts itself, brick by brick, to stop Voldemort.

"Oh, shit," swore Harry, realising what time it was. "I'm late for Quidditch practice."

He dumped Padfoot in his dorm, grabbed his Firebolt, and flew out of the nearest window which was both big enough and could open. It took a while to find one suitable, but was a lot quicker than walking down the stairs.

By the time he reached the pitch, everyone was packing away their brooms.

"Sorry," he said to the group. "I had a detention with McGonagall, and it dragged on way longer than it was supposed to."

"You're just lucky nobody else is stepping up to play seeker," said Angelina, in a tired voice, but not an angry one. "Your Keeper lives up to his recommendation. He's in. But I want to see you fly again before I decide whether I need to hold Seeker tryouts."

"Fair enough," said Harry, just as Fred, George, and Katie all spontaneously exclaimed the opposite.

"That's not fair!" they claimed, all at the exact same time. Harry looked quizzically at the twins.

"Did you guys do something to her? Synch your pocket watches or something?

"Not a thing," said Fred. "But we're a team, and a team thinks with one brain!"

"Shared between us, unfortunately, and it happens to be mine. Or at least that's what Team Captain meant last time I checked," said Angelina.

Harry smiled, and Alicia giggled in the background.

"How was practice?" he asked Angelina.

"Well enough," she said. "McLaggen needs a lot of work learning to play with others instead of showing off, but the twins have put on some muscle over the summer, and I've been thinking up some new plays I want to try."

"How about your Seeker?" Harry asked.

"Flew so fast I couldn't see him," she replied in a deadpan voice. "Unfortunately the Snitch got eaten by a passing owl."

"Tragic," said Harry.

"It'll be tragic if you can't handle your Firebolt, Potter," shouted Cormac.

"Let me show you how to fly so fast that you disappear, then, McLaggen," taunted Harry.

He kicked off the ground and flew full speed into the distance, quickly leaving the Quidditch Pitch behind him. He grinned, wondering what the others would think when he never came back. He imagined that it would be any moment now that he disappeared, becoming too small to see.

But that wasn't what he was here for. Harry pushed forward at full speed on his Firebolt until he passed the wards surrounding the school. He felt them wash over him like stepping through a curtain of water, and then was free. Immediately outside the wards, he landed, left his Firebolt hidden in a tree which he marked with a simple rune, and Disapparated.

He reappeared in the stairwell of the Daily Prophet office building. A light was still on in Skeeter's office. Excellent. He'd had her pegged as the type to work late, and was hoping he wouldn't have to root through employee files to find her home address.

While hidden in the shadow of the stairwell, Harry Transfigured his Hogwarts robes into threadbare homespun, and cast his age forward until he looked more or less the same age he had been when he'd first met Skeeter in this timeline. He walked along creaking floorboards, and had a hand raised to knock when she pulled her office door open.

For a moment Harry considered knocking on her face, but that didn't fit the role he was playing, so he restrained himself.

"Mister Potter," she greeted him in that sickening drawl. From her expression it was clear she thought she'd caught him, thanks to that snooping charm she'd planted on him. If it wouldn't blow his cover, Harry would have laughed at how close she was to the truth.

Instead, he furrowed his eyebrows in the pretence of annoyance.

"How'd you know?" he demanded.

"This office is closed, locked, and you come stealing in here while I'm working, the only woman in the building! Why, I really should be the one to ask the questions, shouldn't I? And if you have the answers, I won't need to call the DMLE down, now, will I?" she said, simpering.

Harry was revolted, but hid the expression under a mask of anger.

"Then Ill just tell 'em about your beetle, won't I?" he insisted.

"Oh, please," Skeeter said dismissively. "People say anything when they're being hauled off to the cells. That's the one time nobody would believe anything you said. And if you said it then, they'd never believe you if you tried to use it another time."

"At least tell me how you knew who I was," Harry grunted.

"Oh, the pieces all fit. Estranged grandfather, faked his own death so cunningly that even I struggled to trace it." Harry stifled a snort, and Skeeter gave him a firm look "Oh yes, I managed to trace your forged paperwork. Going underground to hide from the war, were we? But too ashamed to come back out when the world was put to rights and your son was dead."

"Journalists," grumbled Harry under his breath. The bitterness in his voice was sincere. The way she'd fabricated a story to deceive the fictional Charlus Potter was eerily reminiscent of a certain hate-campaign launched against Harry himself, in that it was utter bullshit, but spun a certain way, could look like the truth.

"Don't lie to me, Charlus, I'll always find out. But if you keep my secrets and give me my answer I'll let you leave here a free man. It was so brave of you, after all," she gushed, leaning closer to him. "How you finally came out of hiding to help your orphaned grandson, The Boy Who Lived, when he had that terrible accident. Tell me your story and I'll make you look good in it. If you won't give me this - aha - interview, well, I'll call the Ministry and the article will be about Charlus Potter, petty criminal and burglar, not the hero rising from the dead to save a boy!"

She cackled in pure glee. Harry shuddered. He really hated this woman.

"Don't write my story," he said. "Keep my secrets, and I'll keep yours. I came here to give you another story. Anonymous, again, mind!" he exclaimed.

"Let's hear what you have to say, then, my dear Charlus," said Skeeter, stepping out of the doorway and beckoning him into her office. "Would you like a drink?"

Harry saw the tiny gleam of a potion bottle between the glasses she was carrying towards them.

"Not tonight," he said. "Got to keep a clear head if I want to get home this late."

"Oh my," said Skeeter, raising a hand to her mouth. "That sounds like it has a story behind it."

"But not the one I brought for you," Harry snarled. "I have a better story than a lost old man. I want you to print it."

"Well?" she said, Quick-Quotes Quill hovering in the air beside her. Harry jumped at the sight of it. He hadn't even seen it appear. Her bag wasn't nearby. She must have sewn the damn things into her clothing! Harry supposed that explained how she managed to sneak them into so many controlled events.

He quickly related to her the new, true, and tragic story of Sirius Black.

"Oh that's good," she purred. "This will make the headlines sit up and dance." She paused for a second, and then gave Charlus a sideways look.

"So how's your grandson doing these days?" she asked slyly.

"You know he doesn't even know I'm alive. And I want it to stay that way," snapped Harry. "I'm a disgrace to the Potter name. He's our future. Let history say I died when my medical records say I died, and forget all about me. He'll have a better life without the shame of a cowardly old man haunting him."

"Hmm," said Skeeter, tapping her lips with the quill. "Surely you've been keeping an ear to the ground. What's he up to these days? Recovered nicely from the accident, or is he still at Mungos? Nobody saw him board the train to Hogwarts, you know," she whispered conspiratorially.

"He's at Hogwarts. Going to enter the Triwizard Tournament. That's the rumour. And if that accident back in summer really made him seventeen, he's allowed. I checked the rules."

"The last scion of the Potter family, poised to restore their lost honour?" taunted Skeeter.

Harry clenched his fists, and got to his feet.

"Look, lady, I'll get you stories, but you keep my name out of it. Out of everything. I'll pass what I hear your way if you'll just let me be," he said, his tone starting as anger, but turning into pleading over the course of his words.

"Oh, very well. Champion of Great Britain it is. No attachment to the Potter name at all." Skeeter closed her notebook. The noise was both quiet and deafening as a coffin lid sliding shut.

"What!" exclaimed Harry, faking outrage. "He's a Potter! If he wins that tournament, that's glory everlasting for the Potter family! You can't take that away in a - in a nickname!"

"Oh, but I can," purred Skeeter. "Your choice, Charlus. A Potter Champion and a Potter criminal, or just Harry, the Champion."

Harry blustered and swore at her for a moment, then pretended to come to a decision.

"Fine. Just Harry. I stay out of it. You never put me in a story, ever," he demanded.

"So long as you bring me juicy tidbits like this, my dear burglar," she said sweetly. Her eyes narrowed in an instant. "Now, scat. I'm sure you can break out as easily as you broke in. I have not one but two new articles for tomorrow's morning Prophet."

"You cheated me," Harry accused her.

"Not at all. You didn't even know it was a story. I drew it out of you. Pieced it together. The story of the Champion is all mine."

"I want paying for anything else I bring you," Harry said flatly. "You swindled twice what I offered out of me tonight. I won't have nothing but discretion and coin after that."

"As you wish dear," said Skeeter. "But do be sure to close my door on your way out."

Harry slammed it shut behind himself, leaving a very smug witch. Once he'd reached the sanctuary of the stairwell he Apparated back to the edge of Hogwarts. And he smiled.

The only way to beat someone like Skeeter is to look like you've been beaten. They'll take everything you have and use it against you. So have nothing. Lose it all. Let them win. What does it matter, when their prize is going to benefit you?

Guerrilla warfare. Tabloid journalism. Plain old lying. Harry had practice. Skeeter had played right into his hands, and the only cost was the sleaziness he felt from being around her. Well, and he also felt bad for using the mistaken identity of his grandfather as a disguise and slurring his name, even if only one witch knew. Harry was fairly certain that Skeeter would guard her sources - like Charlus had now become - as jealously as a dragon guards its eggs.

Harry's remnant of a conscience twinged, and he resolved to apologise to his grandfather if he managed to get a working Resurrection Stone out of the ring horcrux. It had worked last time after being stabbed with Gryffindor's sword, so that was a safe bet. Harry doubted the enchantments on the Founders' artifacts were so resilient, and he didn't really want to leave gaping sword-holes in them. The hard part about the ring would be getting rid of the curse.

It could have been because Skeeter wrote the article herself, rather than relying on her enchanted quill, but the story about Harry didn't turn up for a week. He'd been hoping it'd wait until his name actually came out of the Goblet, but after a week of keeping his head down and doing his best impression of a bored and lazy student in classes, the Great Hall began to flood with the noise of rumours and outrage.

Harry looked wearily up from his bacon, still exhausted from tending bar at The Hog's Head until the early hours of the morning, and saw that most of Hogwarts was staring at him. Over the frantic hubbub he could hear one word being repeated again and again, by students from every house and year.

"Fuck," he said, loudly enough to make the students sitting around him jump. Padfoot growled upon hearing Harry's annoyance, and Harry slipped a second plate loaded with bacon under the table for him.

"Champions don't swear like that," said Angelina primly. Harry turned around to find her behind him, hands on her hips, and a distinctly unamused expression on her face.

"How should I swear?" asked Harry.

"Why the fuck is there a Daily Prophet article proclaiming you as the undeniable shoe-in for the role of Hogwarts' Triwizard Champion?"

Harry narrowed his eyes at her, and bit through the last of his bacon.

"You just swore with the exact same word as me, you hypocritical witch," he said.

"No, Harry, I embedded it into a sentence. You said fuck. I used fuck for emphasis. To emphasis how fucking weirded out I am by this article. I used fuck as a grammatical tool, whereas you just said a naughty word at the breakfast table. Cussing needs context, or it's not doing anything," she said, still looking as grim as before, but with a certain amused set to her lips.

"Being lectured on the correct way to swear by my Quidditch Captain is bound to be weirder than whatever Skeeter wrote about me," said Harry absently.

"Have you read the article?" Angelina asked.

"Do you see a paper?" asked Harry, raising an eyebrow. "The post just arrived. Here I sit, without a paper, without an article. So no, Angie. I haven't read it. Though I intend to as soon as I can steal a copy from someone."

"Then how'd you know that Rita Skeeter wrote it?" she demanded.

"Oh, fuck," said Harry. Angelina didn't comment on his failure to add context to his fuck this time. He could tell when he'd been caught out. "Your question wasn't rhetorical, was it? You actually think I had something to do with this," he muttered to himself.

"More and more with every word you say," said Angelina. "We've all heard you claiming that you're entering the tournament, but how the hell did you get that in the paper? On the front page!" she exclaimed, thrusting her own copy into Harry's hands.

"She tried to interview me after my accident this summer," said Harry. The accident was a good fall-back excuse. Nobody questioned it too deeply. It was weird, and it was magic, and although everyone knew there was more to the story than Harry was telling people, they weren't pestering him for answers. "I didn't have much interesting to say, but one of her questions was about whether I was going to enter the Triwizard Tournament now that I was overage."

"Explains how you found out about it early," said Angelina. Harry shrugged.

"I said something vague about how I was used to competitions from Quidditch and had a habit of doing crazy things. I didn't even know what the tournament was when she mentioned it. Dumbledore explained it properly afterwards, and I decided I was going to go for it."

Angelina frowned.

"She seems pretty certain that you're competing from a few vague quotes about you having a competitive streak," said Angelina. "Did you talk to her again?"

"Nope," lied Harry. "But I've not exactly been keeping it a secret. Most of the school has heard that I'm entering. Somebody probably wrote about it."

"You've got a big legend around you, but your classmates don't sell stories about you to the press," said Angelina dryly.

"What?" exclaimed Harry. "No! I meant in a letter to their parents or something, and then they told someone else. The rumour got around to Skeeter somehow and she put two and two together from what I said in the interview, I'd guess. Or she just made it up for a good headline," he added sourly.

"'Champion of Britain' was the headline. She went on about how your future is shaping up to be as heroic as your past."

Harry sighed, and flipped to the next page, deciding to read whatever Skeeter had written when he didn't have somebody hovering over his shoulder and watching how he reacted.

"It was easier being heroic as a baby. All I had to do was sit there and wait for Voldemort's spell to backfire," he said bitterly. "Adult heroism comes with so much baggage," he said in disgust.

"You're talking like you remember it," said Neville quietly. Harry gave Neville a startled glance, having forgotten who he was sitting with.

"I suppose I do remember it," mused Harry. "I didn't always, but the Dementors woke up my worst memory. My parents dying, calling my name, and then that flash of green light."

Neville shuddered.

"That's a lot like my worst memory," he mumbled. Harry only just caught what the other boy said, and realisation snapped into place. It had only been a few days since Crouch had demonstrated the three Unforgivables in class, and it seemed like the memory was still fresh in Neville's mind.

"I know it's an awful memory, but I'm glad I have it," confided Harry. "Before I met the Dementors I didn't remember my parents' voices. I got to hear my mother say my name."

Angelina placed a hand on Harry's shoulder, and squeezed it gently.

"Oh, Harry," she whispered, eyes glistening. Harry reached up to pat her hand reassuringly, and froze when he saw how white Neville's face had gone.

"My parents were screaming like that spider," Neville whispered. "It went on for so long, but they never told the Death Eaters where they'd hidden me. The Dementors didn't let me hear them speak, only scream. But I heard the voices of the people who did it." Neville was gripping the edge of the table so tightly that his knuckles were even whiter than his face. "They're in Azkaban for it. I wonder what the Dementors make them hear. What kind of memories would that sort of person have?"

From his tone, it was clear that Neville didn't expect anyone to have an answer. Both Harry and Angelina were silent. Angelina was struck mute, stunned by the revelation. Harry, who already knew about the fate of Neville's parents, was just astounded that Neville had told them.

"They wouldn't have any good ones anymore, even if they used to," said Harry. "The Dementors feed on the emotions until the memories are just hollow reflections. Like it happened to someone else. Spend enough time in Azkaban and all that you can remember is pain and regret," he said softly, thinking of Sirius.

"Good," said Neville firmly.

Harry almost started a discussion about how horrible it would be to inflict that on anyone who didn't deserve it, but stopped himself before the words formed. That was not what Neville needed to hear right now.

Looking awkwardly away from Neville, he caught sight of the article on page four.

"Oh, hey, the Sirius Black article is finally out!" Harry exclaimed. Angelina gave him a funny look.

"Okay, so you definitely knew that one was coming. But it's not even about you. What gives?" she demanded.

"I gave the testimony," said Harry offhandedly, and enjoyed her agape stare.

"What?" she exclaimed. "About a Death Eater who's been in prison since you were a baby? Did the Dementors unlock memories of him as well?" she asked incredulously. Harry snorted, shaking his head.

"Nothing like that. Did you read the article?" he asked. Angelina shook her head.

"I came over here when I saw the front page," she said. Harry grimaced.

"The story about Sirius should be on the cover, not Skeeter speculating about me becoming a Champion. Even if she's right for once," he grumbled. "Sirius wasn't a Death Eater. He never worked for Voldemort. He was my dad's best friend. The Ministry just assumed he was a Death Eater when they locked him away."

"Why did they arrest him if he's not guilty?" asked Neville, breaking out of the pained reverie that he'd been trapped in.

Harry scratched his head awkwardly.

"Well, it's complicated," he began. Angelina snatched the paper out of his hands and began reading.

"He was guilty," she told Neville. "Just not of being a Death Eater."

"This should really be on the front page," complained Harry again.

"Why?" asked Angelina. "It's just a makeover on old news. Killer Azkaban escapee on the loose, fudge the details."

"He killed people by accident when trying to get the Death Eater who betrayed my parents to Voldemort," said Harry quietly. "He was trying to avenge his best friend and caught a lot of innocent people in his spell. Did you ever read that article about how he was arrested?"

"I did," admitted Neville. "It said he was just standing there laughing madly, shouting about how he'd killed them. Your parents, the muggles, Peter Pettigrew…"

"Death Eaters don't confess and come quietly," added Angelina nervously.

"They don't often mention the fact that he practically turned himself in. Much more exciting to write stories about the rabid murderer on the loose than about what really happened," said Harry bitterly. "Killing somebody deliberately is not the same as doing it by accident."

"Somebody still ends up dead," argued Angelina.

"But Sirius did that in an attempt to avenge my parents, even if he fucked it up royally. He wasn't a madman killing for fun, like the Prophet claimed he was. The whole country was living in terror of Sirius Black for a year, but he's just a man with a guilty conscience the size of Hogwarts," said Harry sadly.

"Even if he did it by accident, he did a terrible thing!" declared Angelina. "And he's the first wizard to escape from Azkaban. He should still be in there, and the Ministry was right to try to catch him when he got out."

Harry gave her a sad smile, trying not to let the mix of fury and shame reach his face.

"But he wasn't a danger to anyone else. There was no need to terrify the country and slur the name of a man who's probably already tearing himself apart because of what he'd done," he said. "There was no need to set a hundred Dementors around Hogwarts. A team of Hit Wizards should have tracked him instead of surrounding a school with soul-sucking monsters."

"The Dementors were awful, said Neville, shivering. "If this article had come out last year, do you think we wouldn't have had to deal with them?"

Harry began to answer, but cut himself off halfway through telling Neville that they'd definitely have avoided that particular burden.

"Maybe. He's the only wizard to have escaped Azkaban. The Ministry was frightened. When people get frightened, they get stupid."

"But we're getting off the subject," said Angelina, causing both Harry and Neville to look up at her in confusion. "You said that you were the one who gave the testimony for this article, Harry. How did you know all this?"

"He told me," said Harry simply.

Angelina stared at him in disbelief.

"But he could have been lying! Everyone knew he was coming to kill you, and he could have said anything to make you let your guard down, so he could attack you when you'd put your wand down! Why would you believe him?" she demanded in frustration.

"The way that he wasn't attacking me was my first clue," said Harry dryly. "The way that he continued not to attack me was the second. And the way that he risked his life to save me from a werewolf made me pretty sure he was telling the truth."

"Professor Lupin?" asked Neville, sounding forlorn. Harry understood the sentiment. Remus' lessons had been a lot more enjoyable than being barked at by a grizzled ex-Auror, and didn't bring up any childhood traumas. Well, except for Ron's Boggart turning into a spider, but even that had earned some laughs.

"So the deranged serial killer saved you from the best Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher we've ever had?" asked Angelina skeptically.

"It was a werewolf, not Professor Lupin. Even if the werewolf turns into Professor Lupin on the full moon and viciously grades essays," said Harry sardonically. "When it's the full moon, Professor Lupin isn't there anymore. Something else takes his place."

"Snape covered some of my Defence classes too, Harry," said Angelina wryly, and then she let out a long sigh. "I wish he could have stayed. But I didn't know he attacked you, so I suppose he had no choice," she said.

"He was trying to protect me from Sirius, but finding out the truth took a while. He wasn't supposed to be with me that night, but because he was trying to protect me, the werewolf almost killed me," said Harry. "Ironic, huh? But nobody really knew about that. It was just because the news got out that he was a werewolf that he had to quit. Dumbledore wanted him to stay, but Professor Lupin didn't want to cause trouble for him."

Angelina watched Harry in silence for a long time, assessing him with a look that made him feel incredibly uncomfortable.

"You're still in touch with him, aren't you?" she guessed. Harry quickly shushed her, but she waved him off with a flap of her hands.

"Oh, please. Anyone sitting close enough to hear could have guessed."

"I don't really fancy being interrogated about where he's hiding," said Harry. "Not telling anybody is probably a crime even when you take into account the real facts, and I've heard enough about Azkaban to make me never want to visit for anything more than a long weekend."

"Since nobody's ever escaped, I don't think the Wizengamot ever bothered to write a law about hiding escaped fugitives," said Neville helpfully.

Harry stared glumly at his pumpkin juice.

"I read up on his trial," he said. "Sirius should have been out after ten years. They only left him there because of the idea that he was a Death Eater."

"But murder gets you life in Azkaban," said Neville, looking worried.

"Manslaughter doesn't, even if they're two sides of the same coin. And apparently the deaths don't add up. It's not twelve dead muggles, it's one incident. One dead witch or wizard gets you life, but kill as many muggles as you like and your sentence is up in ten."

"That's not fair," said Angeline, frowning. "Either part of it. Killing muggles is still killing."

"Yeah," said Harry morosely. "But even if it's fucked up, that's the law. He's legally finished his sentence for what happened, and they should have let him out. If he'd been in Azkaban when the news came out, they'd have released him, but since he had to break out of there to tell someone - to tell me what happened…" he trailed off.

"They want to haul him back in for escaping," finished Angelina.

Harry nodded, and pushed his plate away. His appetite had gone.

"The article doesn't say whether he'll be thrown back in Azkaban or if they just want to find out how he escaped so they can beef up security, only that he's now wanted for questioning instead of Kiss on Sight."

"He embarrassed the Ministry," said Angelina. "I wouldn't be surprised if they put him back in out of spite for everything they did last year because of his escape."

Underneath the table, Padfoot whined suddenly, and placed his head in Harry's lap. Harry gave Padfoot a sad look, and then began to scratch him behind his ears.

"There's no law which lets them do that, but I don't think they'd care if they thought it'd be the way to come out looking good," said Harry. "Politicians are vindictive and narcissistic in equal measures. But you've always known that, haven't you, Padfoot?" he asked.

Padfoot growled softly, but briefly.

"I didn't know your dog was under the table," exclaimed Neville in surprise. Harry looked up at the other boy and flashed him a grin.

"He's not very fond of dog food, so I sneak him into meals. I don't know if it's actually against the rules, but I don't want to find out if it is, so he hides under the table with his plate," said Harry.

Neville smiled at that, and lifted the tablecloth to duck his head under and look at Padfoot. He immediately jumped back up again, giving Harry a startled look.

"You actually did give him a plate!" he exclaimed.

"Well even a dog doesn't need to eat straight off the floor," said Angelina sensibly.

"But why did you give him cutlery?" insisted Neville. "And a napkin?"

Harry shrugged.

"He'll never be allowed to sit at the table if he won't learn to use them properly. Until then, he's confined to eating breakfast on the floor."

Padfoot whined, and Angelina laughed.

"He'll never be able to hold anything in those big old paws," she said affectionately. "Maybe he could hold a fork in his mouth, but then how would he use it? Pick things up or eat them, but not both."

"I'm sure that he'll learn how to do it eventually. He's a smart dog. I expect he'll be sitting at the table beside me for our Christmas Dinner," said Harry. Padfoot batted Harry's knee playfully, and Harry added a few more sausages to Padfoot's plate.

A moment later, when he was sure that nobody was looking, he slid Angelina's copy of the Prophet under the table, too. It was still open to the page with Sirius' article.

"He reads, too?" asked Angelina conversationally.

"You were looking in the other direction!" Harry accused her. She rolled her eyes.

"I looked back," she said flatly.

"He's no Hermione, but Padfoot's a good reader for a dog," said Harry. A happy bark of confirmation came from under the table, and Neville laughed. Harry saw Angelina fighting the smile which was forming on her own face, too, and laughed at her stubborn refusal to encourage his behaviour.

"Even Crups and Kneazles can't read," she said weakly.

"But Padfoot isn't a Crup or a Kneazle, so that's okay," said Harry. She punched him in the shoulder and flopped down onto the bench beside him. Since students had breakfast at whatever time suited them, the tables were usually a lot emptier than at lunch and dinner.

"You're incorrigible," she said in mock exasperation.

"I don't think he could read that word," said Harry, putting on an air of mock thoughtfulness. "But maybe with some practice he'll be able to read Witch Weekly without a dictionary."

Padfoot butted his head against Harry's leg, growling threateningly. Angelina flinched, but Harry just laughed, knowing it was just him reacting to the jibe in the only way he could while in Padfoot's form.

"Quidditch practice after dinner. Don't miss this one, or Padfoot's flying reserve Seeker to get McLaggen used to our formations," she said.

"If I miss practice, I'll probably be with Padfoot," said Harry. "But I'll be there so long as I don't get a detention for wearing lily-scented perfume to Double Potions."

Angelina gave him an odd look, and then opened her mouth. Harry guessed that she was going to ask if he was actually going to wear perfume to Potions, but then she snapped her mouth shut. He could almost see the moment she decided that he was actually going to do it. The way she rolled her eyes was a clue.

"Why would that get you a detention?" she asked, carefully refraining from asking why. Harry smirked, knowing that she'd deliberately held back from asking that particular question for fear of how insane the answer would be.

"Because it would be me doing it," said Harry truthfully, although not without omitting some significant details.

"Right, Snape hates you even more than the rest of us combined. Carry on acting weird around him, and he'll use you as a Potion ingredient," she scoffed. Neville nodded in silent agreement and fear. "Hey, wasn't your mum called Lily?" asked Angelina suddenly.

"That's right," said Harry. "I saw some lily perfume and it reminded me of her, so I bought it on a whim. Stupid idea, really. I'm never going to wear perfume, am I? But I figured that since I had it, I may as well wear some for my favourite professor."

Angelina gave him a long look, and then put a hand on his arm, smiling in a twisted parody of benevolent acceptance. Harry immediately began to feel nervous.

"There's no need to make up stories, Harry. It's okay to have a crush on your teacher. But I don't think any amount of perfume will help you seduce Snape," mocked Angelina. "He certainly feels strongly about you, maybe even strongly enough to risk his job - but I think you've got the wrong emotion there."

Neville choked noisily. He hadn't even been eating anything. Harry handed him his goblet of pumpkin juice, which was gratefully accepted.

"Don't worry, Padfoot would bite me if I ever decided that seducing Snape was a good idea," said Harry, rolling his eyes. "But you'd be surprised how much hatred can be an aphrodisiac," he added. "Not with Snape! But if you hate somebody enough, there's a certain passion. It just needs the right moment and something to spark it into existence."

"Like perfume?" suggested Neville innocently.

"Don't have hatesex with Snape, Harry," warned Angelina. "You've been weirder than usual this year, but there's a limit."

"That's not on my to-do list, Angie. Besides, hatesex requires attraction as well as animosity. Just hating somebody isn't enough. You have to hate somebody hot and then have her hate you back until something snaps," said Harry idly.

"You sound like you're speaking from experience," she observed. "Did you rehearse that just so you could subtly suggest that you've been getting some action?"

Harry laughed.

"I never claimed to be speaking from experience," he said, although he absolutely was. "I think the Champion story about me is enough for today without spreading wild rumours about my sex life."

"Most students would have said their love life, not their sex life," said Angelina. Harry gave her an appraising look. She was either very observant or a pain in his arse who picked apart little details. It'd serve her well as a Quidditch Captain, but would begin to get really annoying if she kept it up all the time.

"Sounds like you've already made up your mind about mine," said Harry in exasperation.

"Just commenting on what I see in front of me," she said innocently. "I didn't suggest a thing."

"Except for Harry seducing Snape," commented Neville.

If the idea wasn't so ridiculous that it amused Harry, he felt like he'd be completely revolted. As it was, he just let it go without saying anything. He knew that attempting to deny it would only encourage further teasing, and this was not something he wanted to become a running joke. As soon as it stopped being funny, he knew that his gag reflex would kick in with a vengeance.

Still, he wasn't going to be outmaneuvered and embarrassed by a teenage girl's teasing, so Harry launched into action.

"As great as it would be to see Snape sacked for sleeping with a student, I'm not brave enough to make that kind of sacrifice," said Harry. "But it's a good idea, Angie. Maybe one of the Slytherin seventh-years would work. Do you think we'll need to brew a love potion for Snape as well, or just for our sacrificial lamb?"

"For all I know, Snape's already having an affair with the Head Girl. She's a Slytherin. Gets top marks in Potions. Sometimes he even greets her in the corridors when they pass," said Angelina.

"I don't think that saying hello to somebody is a sign that they're having an affair," said Neville. "Even if Snape would never normally be civil, even towards Slytherins. He might hate us, but he looks down on them as just another bunch of brats most of the time." Neville paused, giving it some thought. "Actually, him casually greeting a student in the corridors is weird. Really weird," he said.

"But I can't see the Head Girl making a move on Snape, and he doesn't seem like the type to know how to get a girl," mused Angelina. "What a wasted opportunity. We could have gone to McGonagall about it and finally be free."

"It's like you weren't even listening to me," complained Harry. The other two both looked at him questioningly. "I asked you whether you thought we'd need a love potion for him or just for the girl. We MAKE our opportunity. Sounds like they just need a teensy dose to get them started, right?"

"Harry, you know we were joking, right?" asked Neville nervously.

"I wasn't," said Angelina. "Snape's almost nice to Arriane. And she works so hard to impress her teachers - maybe one in particular? Did you know that love potions don't work on two people who already like each other?" she suggested.

"You're still not telling me whether I should brew one or two potions," retorted Harry. "In fact, it seems like you're trying to suggest I don't need to, in a hamfisted attempt to stop me from carrying out this wicked scheme - to which, I should remind you, you are both accessories in the eyes of the law, should we get caught."

The guilty look on Angelina's face disappeared as quickly as it had appeared. Harry marvelled at her little deception.

"I don't know what I'm more surprised by - your willingness to believe I'd dose a student with love potions to get at Snape, or your underhanded attempt to stop me," said Harry, smiling with no small amount of malice. "Maybe I should give you the Snapey love potion, since you think so little of me."

"That wouldn't raise my opinion of your possible sanity," said Angelina dryly. "And it would probably get both of us expelled for attacking a teacher rather than Snape getting the sack. I doubt he'd take the bait if you dosed me, and he'd know if you got him with a love potion. Potions Master, remember?"

"How about you, Neville?" offered Harry.

Neville stammered breathlessly, and turned blue in horror. Angelina slapped Harry on the back of the head.

"Don't be mean. You'll give him nightmares," she ordered.

"So does that mean we're sticking with the Head Girl?" asked Harry.

Angelina groaned, and kicked him hard in the shin.

"No love potions. I'm not going to third-party date-rape somebody."

"But you seemed so sure that they have a connection," wheedled Harry. "It'd be terrible if that went to waste. Maybe just a few drops in her goblet, to give her the confidence to act on what she wants deep down?"

Angelina glared at Harry, but then finally relented.

"Damnit, you've got me curious about whether anything would happen. But I'm not giving anybody a love potion. That's just wrong," she said, grimacing. "Love potions make feelings that aren't real, they don't enhance what's there."

"Ah well, that's a shame," said Harry in feigned disappointment. Inwardly he was jubilant at how successful he'd been at getting them away from the topic of him seducing Snape. That was one rumour he really didn't want to start floating around, even in jest.

"Alright," said Angeline, startling Harry, who'd begun to relax. "I'll compromise. No love potions, but we can give her something to boost her confidence a bit. Maybe encourage her to act out something she'd never normally do."

"Firewhiskey?" asked Harry, dubiously.

"No!" cried Angelina, mortified. "Getting somebody plastered and shoving them in Snape's bed when they don't know which way is up is just as bad as a love potion."

"I agree," said Harry. Angelina looked at him suspiciously. "And her being drunk would be incredibly obvious. He'd just give her a sobering potion or send her back to her dorms to sleep it off. The man's creepy as all hell, but he's not, you know, a creep."

"I was thinking an Ego Elixir. It makes you confident and reckless, acting on feelings on a whim, but taking things further than normal. I tried taking it to write one of my worst assignments last year. I didn't know anything that I didn't before, but it gave me the confidence to stop thinking and just act," said Angelina.

"Did the absence of thought show in your grade?" asked Harry mildly.

"Worst assignment of the year, but the best essay I've ever written," she answered smugly. "I got what I wanted against all the odds."

"Just like a hopeless crush on a teacher," said Neville. The revulsion on his face was plain to see; Neville couldn't understand how anyone could fancy Snape. Harry barely could, and that was only because he'd learnt an important universal truth: people were attracted to weird, ugly, and nasty people all the time. Snape was only really nasty, although he'd never be considered normal or to be good looking.

Harry hadn't planned on anything like this happening when he'd travelled back in time. The lily perfume to mess with Snape was one of a number of minor things he'd planned, building a foundation upon which Snape could reassess Harry Potter as an ally, and stop seeing James Potter.

But this scheme, which really belonged to Angelina right now, could prove to be a wonderful shortcut if it worked out. Snape had always been one of the hardest people to plan to manipulate. This could be Harry's opportunity to hit harder and faster than he'd planned. He grinned wickedly.

"By that smile, I take it you're in?" asked Angelina.

"So this is officially your project now, isn't it?" quipped Harry.

"I suppose so," she said, after a moment of speculation. "Although the initial idea was yours, so you get the blame if we get caught. Neville, you in?"

Neville looked taken aback at being included, afraid, and eager, all at once. He mumbled incoherently.

"If I'm taking the blame for Angie, I can take the blame for you as well," offered Harry. "No sense in all of us going down, and if I'm already caught in the act and damned, I can at least pretend that it was only ever me."

"Alright," said Neville hesitantly, before beaming widely. "Alright, I'm in."

Harry grinned at the sight of his younger friend. Last time around, Neville would never have had the courage to join in a fiasco like this. Turns out his confidence was there all alone, just waiting for an adventure to help him shake off his self-doubt. Just like last time, as a matter of fact. Harry remembered the man he knew as Neville, and resolved to help the boy grow into him a little bit faster and with a little less torture along the way.

There had never been any doubt that Harry would need Snape. Not just as a spy, but also for his formidable prowess with Dark magic. The cursed ring was a prime example of Snape's more practical skills - Harry knew of only one other wizard who could remove it, and that was the one who'd cast the curse.

This idea had come together as idle joking over breakfast, but Angelina's curiosity had been roused, and Harry had the expertise to put the whole thing together. The one hitch in the plan was whether the Head Girl actually did have a secret crush on Snape. Angelina seemed to think it was possible enough to warrant trying, but Harry didn't even know who she was, let alone what her most embarrassing secret might be. He could find out easily enough, and if she didn't - well, the love potion idea was morally reprehensible, and easily recognised when the potions wore off, but Harry had worked with less material on more dangerous missions before.

The three of them left the breakfast table soon after Neville had agreed to their pact. Angelina had a free period, so Padfoot bounded after her outside, eager for a walk, but with the Daily Prophet he'd been reading held tightly in his jaws. Harry and Neville headed towards the dungeons - and Snape.

For once, Neville's steps to Potion weren't reluctant and dragging. He had a spring in his step, and an evil smile on his face. Harry felt proud.

"Think he'd really get fired, if something happened?" he asked Harry.

"If he was caught by the wrong person, and word got out, he probably would," said Harry. "But depending on who catches him, the reaction could change. Might be hushed up, might be a firestorm of gossip but no facts. Mind you, even if he doesn't get caught, it might put him in a good mood for once, and we'll know that we got one over on him, right?"

"Yeah," agreed Neville, eager to beat Snape for once. Harry chose not to point out the irony in getting revenge by possibly getting Snape laid, as he didn't want to ruin Neville's mood, but he found the idea perfect. A little give, a little take. Snape and the girl would be happy, and Harry would have blackmail material - or they'd both be very unhappy, and Harry would have lots of blackmail material. Hell, he might not even need blackmail material if he continued with his other machinations. A willing ally in Snape was much safer than one under duress, as Voldemort had gradually learned.

Harry dug in his bag for a while, until he finally found his perfume bottle. He sprayed it heavily on his wrists and neck, then put it away. Neville gave him a weird look.

"So you really are wearing lily perfume to potions. Why?"

"Same reason we're doing the other thing. To mess with Snape," answered Harry.

"I thought we were trying to get him fired?"

Harry shrugged.

"Best not get our hopes up. That might happen. But we know for sure that we can mess with him and have a laugh at his expense, even if it's just watching him awkwardly turn down the Head Girl coming onto him. That's good enough to begin with, for me."

"I want him fired," said Neville gloomily, "but I'll settle for humiliated if that's what we can get."

"That's the spirit!" exclaimed Harry.

A small mob of Gryffindors came around the corner at that moment. Their classmates for Double Potions. Fellow souls suffering torture in the Hogwarts dungeons.

"What's the spirit?" asked Ron.

"Neville's not afraid of Snape anymore," said Harry.

Neville looked puzzled, and then looked at Harry wonderingly.

"I guess I feel kinda like I'm not. Why is that?" he asked.

Harry grinned.

"Because you know that in the end, you're going to beat him in this game," he said. Neville grinned in reply.

"Classes aren't a game, Harry!" cried Hermione, rushing over to him from the far side of the mob.

"They seem like a game for you," he teased. "Is it fun because it's easy, or is it easy because it's fun?"

Hermione sniffed.

"If you just applied yourself harder and actually studied, you might enjoy classes a bit more, too," she snapped.

"That's probably true," admitted Harry, surprising Hermione. "Come on, we don't want to be late," he said, forestalling any further lecturing, despite the fact that they were still early.

The class started innocuously enough. Harry zoned out, only paying enough attention to stir his potion and repeat "I don't know" and "sorry sir" at regular intervals when Snape came swooping by.

It was only a matter of time before Harry caught Snape lingering nearby slightly longer than usual, a confused expression on his face. Harry grinned into his cauldron. He'd caught the bait.

Snape made several utterly false excuses to check on Harry's potion, which was nearly good enough to earn a fourth year an O grade. Harry's original potions had been flawed enough that Snape could find legitimate reasons to swoop in and berate Harry, but this time around, Snape was spouting bullshit in a threatening voice as an excuse to be near Harry.

In the end, frustration got the better of him. Harry had been wondering if he'd figure it out himself, give Harry a detention and demand a confession, or brood about it. He hadn't expected Snape to simply ask.

"Potter!" he snapped. Harry looked up glibly. "Since correcting the flaws I pointed out earlier, your potion has become almost usable. But it seems to be emitting completely the wrong odour. What extra ingredient did you add?"

"I just followed the instructions, sir," said Harry, gesturing at the blackboard.

"That's not possible," snarled Snape, marching over to Harry's cauldron. "No amount of mis-stirring can cause this particular potion to emit a floral scent. You've added a wrong ingredient, displaying the astoundingly resilient inability to follow basic instructions."

Malfoy laughed from the other side of the room, but Harry ignored what he was sure was the wittiest insult imaginable, just as Snape did.

"Somehow it has not ruined your potion, only changed its odour. From this we can infer a change in the final potion's properties, as you well know. Review the correct ingredients and discover what else you added, and when. In addition to today's homework, write six inches on how it has altered your potion, and the effects you expect that your deviant brew will possess. Be sure to compare the new effects to the results of the potion when properly brewed," demanded Snape.

Well that was unexpected. But Harry supposed that an odd smell appearing in a Potions Lab wasn't entirely implausible.

"Actually, sir, it's not my potion," said Harry.

"What are you blathering about, Potter?"

"The flowery smell. My aunt gave me something of my mum's this summer. I left it in my school bag by accident and it leaked everywhere. Sorry Professor," he said meekly, looking at Snape sheepishly, like a teenage boy who'd accidentally spilled a flowery perfume in class. Hook, line, and sinker.

"Lilies," Snape said quietly. None of the other students could hear them, save for Hermione, who Harry had partnered with. She gave Harry a startled look.

"My aunt said that their parents gave Mum a bottle of the same perfume every birthday. She kept some as a keepsake, and gave me one of them. Sorry about the smell, sir," said Harry, trying to look guilty.

"She always hated that tradition," said Snape quietly. "She smashed a bottle on your idiot father's head when he noticed and bought her one."

"Sir?" said Harry, prompting Snape to continue without wanting to interrupt his thoughts or remind him of who he was speaking to.

""I am more than my name"" is what she said to me afterwards. Although she did like the perfume, she hated being given it."

"So you knew my mum as well as my dad?" asked Harry innocently.

"We were in the same year at school," Snape said, curtly, breaking out of his memories and back into the present. He looked set to march away as fast as he could without appearing to flee, so Harry interrupted his withdrawal with a question.

"Aunt Petunia mentioned a wizard who lived nearby when they were kids," said Harry. "Was that you, Professor?"

Snape curled his lip in distaste, looking disdainfully at Harry.

"And what on earth made you leap to that distant conclusion? There are not so few wizards in Britain that only I could have grown up where your mother did, Potter. There were thirty wizards in our year group. I do not care to know where they spent their youth."

"My aunt was...descriptive," said Harry, awkwardly. "It sounded like it could have been you."

Snape glared at him, no doubt guessing what the description might have been like, all grease and sallow skin and that giant nose. But, still glaring, he finally relented.

"Yes, it was me," he said. "I knew her before we attended Hogwarts. Now cease your inane prattling, and bottle your potion. It's clearly finished, and simmering it further will serve no purpose," he snapped, stamping away in a swirl of robes and regret.

"Harry, what was that about?" whispered Hermione. Harry just shrugged, looking blankly at her.

"You heard as much as I did. Weird, huh? He was friend with Mum but hates Dad and me so much. I wonder how that happened," he mused.

From her expression, Hermione had guessed the obvious reason - the actual reason - but didn't say a word, pressing her lips firmly together as if afraid that her thoughts might escape out of her control.

"You look like you've got an idea," said Harry, understating the blatantly obvious.

"Just a guess, really. I shouldn't say. Not unless I'm sure," babbled Hermione.

"What is it?" asked Harry, leaning closer and whispering. Hermione bit her lip, and then gave in.

"I think maybe - don't hate me for saying it - but maybe your mum broke up with Snape to go out with your dad," she whispered guiltily, as if she was accusing Lily Evans of dating Voldemort. Alright, Harry reasoned, to his younger self, it might have had the same feeling of horror and betrayal as that implausible scenario, so maybe Hermione was right to be wary about telling him.

"All I know is that they started going out in their sixth or seventh year, but Mum couldn't stand Dad until then," said Harry.

"You're not mad about what I said?" asked Hermione, breathless with worry.

"Of course not," said Harry. "I doubt Snape ever went out with my mum, but if he did, she had the sense to dump him and move on quickly. How old are people when they start dating, anyway?"

"It depends," said Hermione. "Some people grow up quicker than others. Maybe around fifteen? Sixteen?"

"So maybe Mum went to one Hogsmeade weekend with Snape, broke his heart by telling him that she thought that they were going as friends, and then got together with Dad," suggested Harry with a slight smile. "I won't hold it against her, or you for thinking it."

Hermione managed a smile in return. Harry was surprised by how nervous she was about telling him that. He supposed that children were a lot more easily shocked than adults and time-travellers.

They'd finished their potion early, so the two of them packed away their things and waited for the rest of the class to finish.

And that was when opportunity figuratively dropped in his lap. The Head Girl bustled into the classroom with a stack of papers. She drew a few gazes, especially from the boys, as she entered, but the difficulty of the potion meant that they couldn't keep their attention on her for long.

Harry looked her up and down leisurely, his potion safe and pink within a stoppered glass vial. She was certainly attractive, in a lean, athletic sort of way. Harry was surprised that he didn't recognise her from the Slytherin Quidditch team, but then remembered that their team had a boys-only policy at the moment. He idly wondered what she did to get that figure. That wasn't the kind of body gained through ordinary dieting and exercise. It was an athlete's body; honed to a purpose, to be used, not just to look pretty.

She moved to place the papers on Snape's desk. Before she could set them down, Snape grabbed her hand almost gently, stopping her.

"I'm afraid there's been a rather infectious stain on my desk since Finnegan decided to explode his cauldron in my direction. I'll take those."

The Head Girl handed the stack of paper wordlessly to Snape, who nodded emotionlessly at her in thanks.

"Thank you for delivering these to me, Miss Cauderdale," said Snape in the same measured, civil tones he used when addressing another teacher.

"I'm surprised you can thank me when I've just given you a huge stack of first-year reports to read," she replied.

"I thanked you for bringing them to me, Miss Cauderdale, not for what you brought. I assure you, no teacher is ever grateful for more paperwork, though we can be grateful for those who save us the arduous task of collecting it to begin with," said Snape. Harry held back from staring. That - that was not the same man who he'd been in a room with for ninety minutes.

"Yes sir," said the Head Girl. "Do you need anything else?" She touched her left hand with her right, in the exact spot where Snape had touched her.

"Not at the moment. I suggest you return to your studies. Your NEWT year has only just begun, and you are better off learning what you can now, and not in June."

"Yes sir," answered Cauderdale, before turning around and walking swiftly out of the room.

Harry leaned as far back as he dared on his stool, and wished the room was empty so he could let out a long, low whistle. Angelina be damned, the witch's hunch was right. Cauderdale was into Snape, and Snape - well, he thought of her as a person, and not one of the sweaty useless throngs of students, that much was clear.

He could work with this. Snape probably wouldn't go along with Cauderdale's advances, even if Harry and Angelina managed to prompt them. He was too distant, too wary, and clung to his ancient hurt over Lily Evans as if it was a shield. But Harry knew ways of lowering inhibitions and fogging the past. He was a wizard who worked in a bar, for Merlin's sake! If he hadn't already begun to specialise his magic in Chronomancy, he might have made that his field of study.

Best of all, Cauderdale was overage. An adult. That made things both more practical and more ethical, luxuries that Harry could do without, but preferred to use when possible. And now he even knew her name! That was the most important missing piece of the puzzle, so readily supplied by an unaware Snape.

"They should have given you the front page," argued Harry. He was still annoyed about the morning Prophet. Couldn't Skeeter at least have published them in separate editions of the paper, instead of sidelining Sirius' true story?

"It doesn't really matter," said Sirius, and yawned. "After a year of wanted posters, it wouldn't make much difference which page they put it on. As far as the world is concerned, I'm a dangerous lunatic."

"You are a dangerous lunatic," retorted Harry. "But not because you like to go on muggle killing sprees."

"How do you know I don't like it? I've never tried going out and killing muggles for fun. Maybe the Death Eaters were right, and it's hilarious," said Sirius idly.

"You didn't seem to enjoy it the last time you killed muggles," Harry replied, giving his godfather an evil look.

"But that wasn't on purpose. Just a big explosion. Maybe we should do it properly. Get some big nets and stampede thestrals through central London, chase the muggles into a pit full of spikes and snakes."

"And spiky snakes?" asked Harry

"Only at the mouth," answered Sirius.

"That sounds more like a prank with a bloody finish than muggle baiting. You don't want to hurt people, you just want to mess with them and generally cause havoc."

Sirius folded his arms and leaned against a tree. He looked almost petulant.

"I could do both. I could murder people and cause havoc. They go quite well together, you know?"

"Your heart's not in it," said Harry.

"You don't know that!"

"Yes, I do. I can tell by the fact that we're having this ridiculous conversation. Besides, muggles are too easy to screw with, and too easily frightened to cope with you letting off some steam. You wouldn't be satisfied unless it was witches and wizards that you were terrorising."

Sirius grimaced, and let out a piercing whistle.

Buckbeak descended from the sky in a maelstrom of feathers and talons.

Harry blinked.

"Huh," he said. "That familiar thing is working out for you, then?"

"I reckon so," said Sirius. "Look at the magnificent creature! He wouldn't just come when called like a pet, but he'd recognize the call of his partner. I'm pretty sure that distance isn't a factor here, either. Buckbeak can probably hear better than either of us, but I've yet to find a limit on how far away I can be and still call him."

Harry bowed to the Hippogriff, and Buckbeak bowed immediately in return.

"Good, good, show some respect to the house of Black, man and beast alike!" cackled Sirius. Harry looked at him oddly, but Sirius didn't stop laughing.

"I'm not bowing to a mangy old dog who sleeps on my dorm floor, so get that thought out of your head," he said firmly.

"How about a quick grovel? Plea for mercy and benediction? Anything?" pleaded Sirius.

"Grovel?" repeated Harry incredulously. "Mercy? Who do you think you are, King of the Hippogriffs?"

"Is that a thing?" asked Sirius.

"No," said Harry firmly. Sirius opened his mouth. "And no again. It will not become a thing."

"Hey," said Sirius. "I'm your godfather. I'm older. Sort of. I should be the one in charge. Why are you the one telling me what I'm not allowed to do?"

"Think of me as a cross between your only friend and a straightjacket," said Harry dryly. "I imagine you were fucked in the head before Azkaban, because I'm fucked in the head and I've never been to Azkaban, but now you make a better dog than you do a person, so I have to babysit you until you can learn how to behave again."

"Behave?" whined Sirius.

"Alright, fine. Hide your madness beneath a facade of charm, wit, and debonair good looks. Does that sound better?" asked Harry, exasperated.

"Aside from the hiding part, I like the sound of it. But at least I have Buckbeak as my second best friend to make up for you being a lousy first best friend and mothering me like this. I swear, you're worse than Remus!" exclaimed Sirius.

"I promise that I'll stop once you're sane," said Harry.

Sirius glared.

"Hey, that's not fair."

"No, I meant literally. As your mind heals, your leash grows longer. But it's better if you stick close for now. It's pretty delicate underneath that thick skull of yours right now, and I only have guesses and experiments to fix it with."

"Sounds risky. I'm in," said Sirius without a second thought.

"You realise that some of the ideas I'm contemplating using to heal you will explode your head if they go wrong? Or are wrong to begin with, and will explode your head no matter how well I perform the magic?"

Sirius looked contemplative, and then patted Buckbeak on the shoulder.

"Beaky will avenge me, and then complete your destiny to slay Voldemort, as you'll be dissolving in his gut."

"I see you have it all thought out. I'm impressed," said Harry. "It's almost as complicated as my plan to travel back in time and hit Voldemort with a brick when he was a baby."

Harry had actually tried to do that. It hadn't worked. And now that he'd mentioned it, he just knew that Sirius was going to pry. He sighed, and waited for the inevitable question.

"Would that work?" asked Sirius.

"I can't travel that far back without some side-effects. The not-good kind. There was a chance I could have fixed them by completing the ritual, but I decided to go back to the present instead of risking everything on a long maybe."

"What sort of side effects were so bad? You'd be stuck there?" said Sirius, hazarding a guess.

"Being stuck there would have been a fair price to pay. No, it wasn't that. When I went back that time, I had a failsafe. Like a bungee rope tied around my soul, waiting to pull me back. I turned up in the right time and place, but I had no body. I was a ghost." Harry shuddered at the memory. That had been one awful experience.

"Seriously, a ghost? You're not just talking astral projection, are you?" said Sirius.

"Nope. Not a sending. An actual ghost, because I had no living body. My soul thought I was dead, so the only way I could exist on the mortal plane was as a ghost. It works the same way if I go too far into the future, after I die."

"Well, shit," said Sirius. "I can see how that would make hefting a brick problematic. And be a bitch to deal with for eternity."

"I had a theory that I might be able to form a body if I broke the tether that let me return, as if it was holding me back from fully materialising. There was a chance it would work."

"A good chance?" asked Sirius softly.

"As far as I could work it out, I had maybe a one in fifty chance of succeeding. But almost a fifty percent chance of being able to use my Chronomancy as a ghost, return to a time when I was alive, and retake my body," explained Harry. "I nearly did it. It was a chance to stop everything before it began."

"Why didn't you?" asked Sirius. Harry hesitated. "C'mon, Harry. I know that it wasn't the danger that put you off. You're like your dad. Like me. We like facing impossible odds."

"Being a ghost made me experience things differently. Everything which seemed so important before suddenly became immaterial and insubstantial, like everything except for me was the ghost. I was there for an hour. I almost stopped caring. About everything I was trying to accomplish."

"A self-applied Dementor spell, huh?" said Sirius, raising an eyebrow.

"Damn well felt like it," said Harry. "If I'd become a ghost, I doubt I'd have had the strength of will to return. I'd have the ability, but I just wouldn't care." Harry shivered again. "I can accept failure. Not easily, but I can understand that Voldemort might be too powerful for me to beat. I can't accept myself not trying. I can't understand a world in which I don't fight him until he's gone or I am."

"It's good that you can accept the fact that he's got a good chance of winning, even with your Chronomancy," said Sirius offhandedly. "A lot of people never got that, the first time. But your dad knew from the start. Sometimes you fight even when you know you're going to lose, because you have something precious to leave behind."

"And I'm just so precious, aren't I?" said Harry sarcastically.

"You can accept losing to your worst enemy, but refuse to lose to yourself. That's a precious form of conviction, Harry. Don't ever lose it."

"I did." Harry's voice was flat, and his eyes were closed. He hated thinking of that time, of the muted colours and hollow feelings. He'd damn well pass on when he died, not cling to the earth as a ghost.

"You were dead. Get over it," said Sirius, as seriously as Harry had ever heard him be.

"I did," said Harry, and opened his eyes. Buckbeak pushed his head into Harry's chest and made an indeterminate noise of affection and comfort. Harry smiled, and buried his hands in the Hippogriff's feathers. They were warm. Alive.

"It sucked that badly?" asked Sirius.

Harry nodded.

"Hn. Good thing I have no intention of sticking around as a ghost. It'd be so boring, floating about unable to do anything. Dying seems far more interesting. Anything could happen!" he enthused, with slightly more cheer than most people would be comfortable with when discussing dying.

"You're not looking for your next great adventure already, are you?" asked Harry, only partially joking.

"Nah," said Sirius, and grinned. "I thought about it in Azkaban, but now I've got you, and Buckbeak, and the Forest." He laid a palm on the trunk of the nearest tree. "Funny how much you miss trees. I never gave any thought to why wands were made of wood before Azkaban. I just thought it was the most convenient thing for pointing and waving - a stick. But it's more than that, isn't it?"

"There's more magic in these trees than any other forest in Britain," said Harry, "but all trees have their own magic. One of the few magical plants that muggles know exist. Thing is, wizards know less about them than muggles do, except a half dozen wandmakers spread over three continents."

"Speaking of wands…" said Sirius, teasingly.

"I'm not making you one," said Harry.

"Why not?"

"You have one. Ollivander's a better wandmaker than I am by a long way. Stick with it."

"I won't use it if it's no good. But I want you to make me one anyway, just so I can have a wand my godson made," said Sirius. "Like you said, half a dozen wandmakers. And you're one of them."

Harry waved a hand dismissively.

"An apprentice. I can make my own wand, shaped to my magic, but I'm decades of practice away from making a proper wand. I could probably make you a wand that you can cast a single spell through effectively. Fancy a one-spell wand?" he asked, sneering at his own lack of ability compared to professional wandmakers.

"That'd be great," said Sirius sincerely.

"What?" asked Harry, surprised.

"Can I choose the spell?"

"You'd have to," said Harry. "But why would you want one? It'd be useless in almost every situation."

"I told you already. I want it because you'll have made it. Something to remember you by when you're not with me," he said.

"Oh, alright," said Harry, finally relenting. "But don't complain when you try to cast another spell with it and it leaves splinters up to your elbow. What spell do you want?"

"The Patronus Charm," said Sirius quietly.

Harry looked up at him sharply.

"Yeah, I see why you'd want a Patronus handy at all times. Can you cast one?"

Sirius made an attempt, but only managed to produce white mist. He frowned, obviously frustrated, and the mist flickered as he lost his focus. Within second it had dissipated.

"That memory always used to work for me," he said quietly.

"Was it from before Azkaban?"

Sirius looked at Harry, remembering their earlier talks about the damage to his mind. He grimaced, then turned away, staring into the forest.

"Sirius…" began Harry.

"Expecto Patronum," declared Sirius confidently, turning around to face Harry, smiling widely. This time a distinct shape shot forth from his wand, coalescing into a familiar figure. The Patronus circled them several times, and then landed in front of its twin. The silver Buckbeak bowed. Buckbeak bowed back. Sirius released the spell.

"Not bad," said Harry. Sirius, however, was looking at his wand and frowning.

"It always used to be my Animagus form. Not that I mind. Buckbeak is way cooler than a clone of myself. But the memory I used was flying to freedom on Buckbeak's back. Do you think that they change depending on the memory you use?"

Harry laughed, loud and bright.

"Sorry, Sirius. You have no idea how wrong that is. The Patronus comes from your soul as a whole, not a specific memory. You've changed as a person since you first cast this charm," he said.

"I guess that's another vote for Hippogriff familiar, isn't it?" asked Sirius, with the sound of victory in his voice.

"Or a symbol of a life changing moment," said Harry. Sirius pouted. "But you're probably right. They're not mutually exclusive. The opposite, actually."

"So when do I get my new wand?" asked Sirius eagerly.

"I'll make it sometime this month," said Harry vaguely. "I'll have to figure out what to use first, and it's not high on my list of priorities."

"What is?" asked Sirius.

"What?"

"Your list," he prompted. "What's at the top of your little list of priorities?"

"Mostly waiting, actually," Harry admitted grudgingly. "But only until the Triwizard Tournament starts. I can't move openly until then. The horcruxes are either safely stored where we can get to them, or out of our reach. And they're not a priority."

"Don't fancy destroying the ones we have now, just in case?" suggested Sirius.

"If it was just about preserving the Founders Artifacts, I already would have," said Harry, after giving it some thought. "But I want to make specific changes to Voldemort's ritual. The number of horcruxes still extant in the world might affect it in ways I can't predict."

"So our best bet is destroying them after he resurrects, but before we destroy him," clarified Sirius.

"Sounds so simple, doesn't it?" asked Harry.

"So what else is in the works? Trying to reduce the size of the war?"

Harry laughed. It wasn't a nice laugh.

"No, Sirius. I'm afraid that wouldn't work. We tried that the first time. We're going to make the war bigger. Draw in all the help we can get. He's not going to assassinate us from the shadows without risking himself, not again. He's going to have to face the entire magical world in open battle. Subterfuge was always his play, despite how powerful he might be. I won't fight him on his terms. He's going to fight me on mine."

"We might need more than the Order," mused Sirius.

"That's what this year is all about. Do you think I'd look pretty on a recruitment poster?"

"We can hang it next to my wanted poster in the kitchen!" exclaimed Sirius.

"I'm not setting foot in that house until we get a house elf," said Harry. "But no selling Kreacher. We're going to need him for one of the horcruxes."

"I hate that elf," muttered Sirius.

"Elves are fucking weird. Kreacher's an arsehole as well," added Harry.

"Know many elves, do you?" asked Sirius.

"My number one fan, an alcoholic after a bad break-up, Betsie the goat, and Kreacher. A wide and varied world. Try to find a normal one, if you can. A quiet one."

"Don't milk it," warned Sirius.

"Go milk Buckbeak, you wretched vagrant. I'll make your wand so long as you never mention house elf milk again, deal?"

"That's a deal!" said Sirius happily. "So what are we going to do while you wait for the Tournament to start?"

"Now there's a question," murmured Harry. "I was thinking about breaking into Azkaban."

"I have to lick my balls that night," said Sirius nervously. Harry laughed.

"Oh, don't worry. You can stay right here with your bird and your balls while I do it. I won't be gone long."

"How hard do you think breaking into Azkaban is going to be?" asked Sirius, surprised. "I'm the only one to have ever escaped. It's infamous around the world."

"Well, you were there. You saw what the security is like."

"Up close and personal," growled Sirius. "Breaking in -" he broke off in sudden realization.

"That's it. It's going to be one of the easiest infiltrations I've ever done," said Harry. "I could probably pull it off and be back for dinner."

"Aren't you supposed to be in History of Magic right now?" asked Sirius.

Harry nodded.

"That gives you about an hour and a half. I'll start counting when you leave the ground."

"What?" exclaimed Harry, laughing. "Now?"

"If it's that easy," said Sirius, "May as well make the most of the moment. Take Buckbeak to fly over the wards and Apparate once you're out. I'll see you at dinner."

Harry stared at Sirius for a while, wondering what the mongrel was up to. Sirius smirked.

"I knew you were just bluffing," he said in satisfaction.

Harry shrugged.

"Alright," he said. "See you at dinner."

In one smooth movement, Harry pulled himself up onto Buckbeak. The Hippogriff tensed at the sudden weight, and then burst into a gallop. When they were running fast enough, Buckbeak leapt into the air, and Sirius' excited whoops were muffled by the steady thwump of wingbeats.

Harry landed Buckbeak before he Apparated, unwilling to risk a mid-air cross-species Splinching. Solid ground became a tall black pillar, rising from the crashing waves. The wind was almost strong enough to bow Harry over, all the way up here. He was standing still, but being buffeted by the gale-forces of an intense Quidditch match.

As he gazed around the top of the tower, Harry saw the immediate flaw in his plan. Azkaban didn't have any rooftop access.

He pointed his wand at the inhumanely smooth stone.

"Alohomora, Azkaban," he muttered.

That was when the roof exploded.


End file.
